


Six Feet Underground

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [23]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Bucky Barnes Feels, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Clint Barton, Demonic Possession, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Horror Elements, I'm Sorry, M/M, Multi, POV Bucky Barnes, Polyamory, Temporary Character Death, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: It's hard to bounce back from watching someone you love die in front of your eyes.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 153
Kudos: 285
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was hard to explain in the tags succinctly so I'm putting it here: there's not a huge amount of Clint/Steve content in this fic because of the nature of the story - it's about Clint and it's from Bucky's POV, so it is a little imbalanced. If you're here for Amerihawk then I apologize.

“I’m losing ground,” Steve grits out.

There’s a crash and a shout of pain, and Bucky steps back just in time for a man to fall in a broken heap at his feet. He glances up at Steve’s booted feet on the catwalk above him and shoots a creature that’s mostly tentacles through the grate, elbows something bony and _wrong_ with his left arm before he twists to block a punch.

The twisted mess of the building warps around them and Bucky catches sight of Natasha driving her fist into the chest of something red and wet-looking. His head’s spinning from the constant movement. Bucky misses the days of just beating up ordinary human beings sometimes. This is one of those times, as a discordant shriek rips through his eardrums.

“I can’t get any closer,” Tony says. “Widow, Falcon? Rogers?”

“Kind of busy,” Sam replies. Bucky can’t find him, but he must be in the air somewhere. He glances up and sees a creature that’s mostly teeth through a hole in the roof, decides that he’s not going out there without his own set of wings.

That’s not happening, so he tosses a grenade through a door behind him and tries to push forward. “What d’you need, Stark?”

“I need eyes on the inside,” Tony says. “You free?”

“Steve?”

“Go,” Steve agrees distractedly, as a decapitated head falls to the ground with a wet squelch. Bucky grimaces at the spectacle and thinks that maybe, just _maybe_ he should’ve taken that mission in Papua New Guinea instead. It’s too late to regret his decisions now though, so he just blasts a bullet through the skull of the next demon and heads in the direction the shrieking had come from.

He doesn’t get far, because when the building shifts again there’s a flash of bubbling flesh and bone and then he’s slammed against a wall so hard his vision whites out for a second. His gun clatters to the ground and gets swallowed up by the concrete immediately.

Bucky rips at the pieces trying to keep him pinned. He manages to tear his left arm free and gets it pinned again within the next few seconds, swears at the demon. It’s pinned his hand right next to his thigh this time though, and his fingertips brush the handle of a knife.

“Barnes, you in there?”

“Kinda busy,” Bucky manages, straining for it.

An arrow slices through what could arguably be the demon’s eye and it screams, rears back just enough that Bucky can grab the knife and slice through the pieces holding him captive. Once the demon’s limbs are missing it’s easy enough to kill it, and Bucky wipes the knife off on his pants and grimaces before he glances up at the roof where the arrow had come from.

“The fuck are you doing up there, huh? You’re gonna fall, and I ain’t catchin’ you.”

“The words you’re looking for are _thank you for saving my life,_ ” Clint calls down. “You owe me one, Barnes.”

“I’ll pay it back when we get outta here,” Bucky shouts back.

It’s a little blurry through the red smoke but he still catches the flash of a grin anyway before Clint keeps moving. The payback’s probably going to be something he’ll enjoy anyway - Clint’s good at that, and Bucky could use the break. They could make Steve watch. Aside from the imminent demonic invasion, he’s living the life here.

The next shriek makes him clap his hands over his ears. It’s high-pitched enough to cause physical pain, the kind that sizzles right down to his bones no matter how hard he tries to muffle it. He tries anyway.

“We need to get that portal shut,” Bucky yells.

“The portal goes when the main guy goes,” Tony replies. “I’m going to- _fuck_ that’s loud.”

Steve shouts something in reply, but Bucky’s too busy trying to jam his fingers into his ears. He can feel wetness on his right hand and knows it’s blood even though he can’t move his hands to look. The shrieking gets louder - they’re fucked if no one can move, and he can hear someone screaming through the comms.

He manages to get to his feet - doesn’t even know when he fell down to his knees, but he takes a wobbly step towards the blood-red light of the portal. Shit, he’s not going to make it. Even if he does, he’s not going to be able to _fight_ and they’re all going to die if they don’t do something.

There’s a bang. Bucky looks up just as a flash of black and purple jumps from the collapsing roof and directly onto the demon. It’s all a blur through the smoke and pain, but he still registers Clint fighting, remembers all of a sudden that Clint can just _turn off_ the shrieking. Bucky can’t, though, and it feels like his skull is about to rip itself apart from the noise and-

The noise stops.

Bucky watches as the demon falls to the ground in a bubbling heap. His hands are covered in his own blood and he can only stare as the smoke starts to filter away. Clint raises one hand to his own ear and there’s a barely-audible beep as his hearing aids - and by design, his comms - come back online

“Maybe they’ll stop calling me Iron Fist now,” he mutters. “Everyone okay?”

The various forms of _yeses_ filter through and Bucky manages to start walking towards Clint in painful, halting movements. They did it. _Clint_ did it. God, the wash of relief nearly knocks him over again. He’s never going to get used to them saving the world just in the nick of time.

“Bucky, Steve,” he says a minute later, hand clasped to his chest. “I love you.”

There’s something final about the way Clint says it, though, that makes Bucky feel cold all of a sudden.

“We love you too,” Steve answers for both of them, and there's a scuffling noise through the comms. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, and Bucky sees the dark red seeping through the purple on his chest, the blood that hadn’t been visible on the black parts of his uniform. He smiles weakly and Bucky’s heart drops like a lead weight.

He lunges, too far and too late as the dark tendrils whip out from the portal and stab through dark fabric and tanned skin.

“ _Clint!_ ”

It yanks Clint backwards and Bucky’s thrown back against a wall by the force of the explosion, pain exploding in the back of his skull. The world explodes in white and Bucky’s only aware of Steve shaking him an hour later, asking him _where’s Clint, what happened, did he get stuck under something again_ , and all Bucky can do is grab Steve close and struggle to breathe again.

_“Thought you were supposed to be exercising,” Bucky says, sits down on the bench and passes over the biggest cup he’s holding. He keeps the frothy whipped cream and chocolate mess for himself, takes a sip and leans in against the solid muscle of Clint’s shoulder._

_“I got distracted,” Clint answers, tips his cup in thanks and then gestures to where Steve’s lapping Sam for what looks like the third time at least, based on how displeased Sam is looking._

_Bucky’s got to agree, it’s a nice look. He’s been enjoying a sweaty Steve for the better part of a century, it’s only fair that Clint gets to enjoy it as well. Bucky glances sideways, catches the edge of Clint’s smile as Steve jogs up to them, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. Steve’s shirt is plastered to his chest and Bucky smiles into the kiss he’s rewarded with, gives Steve his bottle of water._

_“Enjoying yourself?”_

_“Sure I am. The view’s real nice, Rogers,” Clint says in a pleased voice, pats at Steve’s chest before he leans up for his own kiss. “I’ve always been a boob man.”_

_“Objectifying people isn’t polite, Barton,” Steve replies. “Anyway, Natasha wants you upstairs.”_

_“You’re no fun,” Clint grumbles, and he laughs._

Bucky wakes up in an empty bed with his legs tangled in the sheets, rolls over and hides his face in the pillow.

“Morning, Natasha,” he greets as he wanders out into the kitchen.

She doesn’t answer his greeting verbally - never does, really, but Bucky’s ma raised him right and he’s going to be polite even if no one else is. Natasha’s wrapped in a fluffy black robe that she’d gotten for Christmas last year, and she slides a bagel over to him silently before she settles into an armchair. She’s watching him flatly and he doesn’t understand why until he looks down at the hoodie he’s shrugged on.

It’s pink. It’s also not actually his. Bucky lets out a sigh through his nose and thumbs at the worn cuffs, resists the urge to take it off and throw it in a corner somewhere. It’s fine, he’s fine. Natasha can keep her judgement to herself.

“He got called out on a mission in Brooklyn,” she says, and for a minute he thinks she means someone else.

“Right.”

Steve didn’t leave him a note again. It’s been happening on and off lately, but that’s just how he gets this time of year. They all get a little weird. Natasha’s bathrobe is a testament to that, and so is the way Sam walks in and just heaves a sigh at Bucky without making fun of him. He doesn’t do anything except for making breakfast.

“What are you doing today?”

“Dunno,” Bucky answers, accepts the mug of coffee that’s pushed over to him. Sam hasn’t put any sugar in it and he grimaces briefly before drinking the rest of it in one go. He’s probably not going to see Steve for the rest of the day. “Might go for a walk.”

“You want company?”

Sam doesn’t look up from his cereal but the offer’s still genuine. Bucky’s almost tempted to take him up on it, and then he thinks about actually _dealing_ with another person for the next few hours and decides it isn’t worth the effort. He’s been getting better at being social, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be social _all_ the time. “Nah. A chance to pass on seeing your ugly mug? I’ll take it.”

“I’m putting salt in your coffee next time,” Sam retorts.

Bucky figures that’s fair, lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“Hey, Bucky,” Aimee greets without looking up from where she’s fiddling with her bicycle. “You here to help Simone with the heating?”

Bucky’s _not_ here to help with the heating, but he may as well help while he’s here. He shouldn’t have taken on being a landlord - he’s not trained well enough for this. He doesn’t even know how to fix the heating, it’s going to take about five YouTube tutorials before he has the slightest clue of how pipes even work in the modern era.

He doesn’t greet each person as he heads upstairs - the way that Clint did - but they poke their heads out to say hello anyway. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s just so he doesn’t abandon them to the Russians he saw skulking around across the street. They don’t have to worry about Ivan and his goons because Steve’s already keeping an eye on them, but for some reason they seem to think Bucky’s more trustworthy.

The kids come spilling out of the apartment the minute his feet hit the landing, swarm around him. Bucky could’ve sworn there were more than two, and one hands him a juicebox. It’s apparently fifty percent pineapple juice, and after taking a sip Bucky decides that is far too much pineapple for him.

Simone’s got her head in her hands when he walks in.

“You okay?”

“No,” she answers with a heavy sigh. “Why doesn’t anything work anymore?”

“The internet tells me that the companies are doin’ some shit with their products. Making ‘em less durable so you have to keep upgrading,” Bucky supplies. He spends too much time reading nowadays, maybe.

“Probably. I’m sure we can work it out between ourselves, though. No one wants to buy a new system. Can you find the toolbox for me?”

“Sure,” he says, gets to his feet so he can head for the kitchen. Bucky’s pretty sure they left it under the sink the last time they’d had problems. It had been the fridge that was malfunctioning a week ago, and if Simone would just _accept_ his money they wouldn’t have so many issues. “You’re in charge, though. I ain’t exactly a qualified repair man.”

“Neither was Clint,” Simone says.

They don’t say his name back at the Tower. Bucky’s kind of relieved that someone still brings him up instead of running a wide berth around the conversation, if he’s honest with himself. Steve still leaves the room sometimes when the press brings him up. He finds the toolbox and brings it back into the main room.

When he gets there Simone runs a hand down his shoulder, pats him gently. He’s a little worried that Simone can see inside his soul somehow - it’s impossible really, but then again, it’s Simone.

“You’re doing a good job,” she says. “He’d be proud of you.”

“He’d be proud of me for wakin’ up in the morning,” Bucky replies. “His standards were pretty damn low.”

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Simone reasons.

“Oh, it wasn’t.”

Simone laughs quietly and takes a step back, pulling a small screwdriver out of the toolbox Bucky had briefly forgotten about. She turns and walks towards the heater and the moment is gone, although the warmth from the memory isn’t.

“Are you and Steve coming to the rooftop grill on Friday?”

“Nah. We’ve got a mission. Think they’re trying to get rid of us.”

“You? No,” Simone says. “Maybe Steve.”

Bucky laughs at that.

Steve wouldn't come in the apartment building unless he was needed to anyway. It's hard to explain to people that your boyfriend has trouble handling even the _memory_ of your other boyfriend. His boyfriend. However he's supposed to phrase it.

_Bucky checks the recipe again. Two teaspoons of vanilla essence, alright, that’s easy enough. He finds the little bottle and pours it out carefully before tipping it into the mixture. Where the hell did he put the flour? He’s sure he’d just left it on the counter by his elbow so it was within easy reach, but it’s vanished into thin air. He sighs._

_“C’mon, Rogers, where’s your sense of fun?”_

_“My sense of fun is just fine,” Steve says. “We’re supposed to be helping.”_

_The flour, as it turns out, is sitting on top of the coffeepot. It’s a mystery as to how it got there - the kind of mystery that Bucky doesn’t feel the slightest inclination to work out. The whisk hasn’t disappeared yet, to Bucky’s relief. He starts stirring the mixture briskly, trying to work out the bubbles and lumps at the bottom of the bowl._

_“You could be helping me,” Clint retorts._

_“We’re not having sex in the kitchen,” Steve answers._

_There’s a beat of silence then, and Bucky tries and fails to focus on the mission at hand. They’d already forgotten to make Sharon’s birthday cake - it’s bad enough that they’re awake at two in the morning to get it done. He’d forgotten that Clint’s attention span is about the same size as an ant. Steve isn’t allowed to cook on principle._

_“You could just put the tip in,” Clint reasons. “Won’t even count.”_

_“No.”_

_“Do blowjobs count as sex?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Handjobs? Or- or I could jerk off on the counter, and you could watch."_

_“No.”_

_“Bring your goddamn problem-solving over here and make the frosting,” Bucky grumbles. Clint laughs at him and a few seconds later there’s an apologetic kiss to his shoulder from Steve, but it doesn’t stop Bucky from throwing a handful of flour at them both anyway._

“Hi, boys. The usual?”

“Yes,” Steve says. “Thank you, Dorothy.”

“We come here too often,” Bucky comments as she walks away with a sway in her hips. He’s pretty sure that most people don’t memorize the name of a random waitress in a no-name retro diner the middle of Las Vegas, but that’s Steve for you. Then again, they end up here every time there’s a mission in this area. Steve’s trying to catch up on the eras of time he missed and Bucky likes the music on the jukebox.

“There are worse places to be,” Steve reasons with him, a distracted look on his face. “You should’ve gotten decaf, it’s going to be a long night.”

Bucky’s half-tempted to call Dorothy back to put _more_ caffeine in his drink. He doesn’t, because he’s over a century old and supposedly an adult, but he thinks about it. The neon lights are giving him a headache. The purple and blue are passable but the red glow is bringing back bad memories, and he sighs before going back to watching the chef scramble his eggs with a few deft hand movements.

“We should go out,” Steve says. “After the mission. See a movie or something.”

“You askin’ me out on a date, Rogers?”

Bucky turns his head just enough to catch the edge of Steve’s smile. “I might be. You interested?”

Neither of them have really got the hang of dates, not really. It wasn’t something they did before and it’s not something they do a lot now. Dates feel awkward and stilted when you’ve known each other for so long, especially when the dates you remember fondly are the ones that were organized by someone who’s not here anymore.

Steve’s making an effort though, and Bucky’s still charmed enough by his clumsy attempts that he’ll sit through the awkward dance of it. If it’s too weird he can always find a spot in the back of the theatre to just kiss him until the discomfort and formality is forgotten. Once again he finds himself lamenting how truly _terrible_ they are at relationships on their own.

“Your food,” Dorothy announces, breaking Bucky out of his thoughts.

Steve’s looking out the window at something but he still gets a faintly pleased look on his face when Bucky speaks aloud. “Yeah, why the hell not. We’re not going to see that thing about the cars again, though, I’m drawin’ the line there.”

“No cars,” Steve repeats. “Got it.”

They fade into comfortable silence, only broken by the sounds of utensils scraping plates and Dorothy humming whatever song is playing. Bucky’s- he’s kind of thrilled by Steve’s question, and by the fact that Steve’s trying at all. They don’t see enough of each other anymore, and he’s looking forward to it. He’s so distracted by his own thoughts that he nearly misses Steve’s sharp intake of breath.

“If it’s a fucking supervillain I’m gonna throw my eggs at them,” Bucky grumbles without looking. “If it’s a minor injustice like someone bein’ rude to a nun, just deal with it and come back.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says breathlessly, and Bucky glances up at Steve’s stricken expression and then out the window where he’s staring. A man is parking a heavy-duty motorcycle across the street. He’s covered from head-to-toe in form-fitting black leather that clings to muscled shoulders and a slim waist.

Something about the way he moves seems _familiar_ somehow, and Bucky keeps watching as gloved hands carefully remove the helmet.

Time stops.

Bucky faintly registers the scruff of a dark gold mohawk, feels as though he’s trapped in a dream. Maybe it’s a hallucination, because there’s no way he could be seeing that face again.

The neon lights catch off of a sharp jawline, a nose that looks like it’s been broken more than once. The glow turns the man’s hair violet and his eyes red, although Bucky’s fairly sure they’re meant to be something lighter without the effect - green or grey, maybe. (It can’t be blue.) He starts walking down the street, tosses his helmet behind him without looking.

It lands perfectly on the seat of the motorcycle.

Bucky keeps staring as the man walks up to the bouncer outside the strip club. He catches the edge of a sharp, cocky grin but can’t hear what is said as the bouncer laughs and lets him walk inside, pocketing a bag of something white. Then he’s out of view, and the roaring in Bucky’s ears feels too loud all of a sudden.

“Bucky,” Steve says again, turns an incredulous look on him. “Bucky, that was-”

“Bathroom,” Bucky interrupts, gets up too suddenly and overturns a plate. It shatters on the floor and Steve reaches for him as he flinches. He’s vaguely aware of Dorothy asking if he’s alright and he stumbles away on weak knees without answering, locking himself inside the cramped bathroom and pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes so he sees spots of colour instead of a ghost.

He doesn’t come out until Dorothy’s ready to close for the night, and even then he can’t quite meet Steve’s eyes. He’s not sure he wants to see what’s there.

They make it to the mission without incident.

They make it through the mission without incident, too - the target turns out to be a policewoman that’s undercover, so they don’t have to mess with her. Steve does give her a lecture about taking unnecessary risks when she’s not wearing a bulletproof vest, but it’s half-hearted at best and Bucky can tell he doesn’t even notice when the woman slips away to rejoin the mob she’s busting.

It’s bad.

Bucky manages to get his suit unzipped. He manages to get to the bathroom and wash off the sweat and dirt without sitting down in the shower and staying there, and he manages to peel the duvet off of the bed before Steve says anything. Bucky’s waiting for it, really, but he’s still hoping that Steve might let it go, just this once.

“It was him."

“Steve,” Bucky says tiredly. He just wants to go to sleep.

“You can’t tell me it didn’t look _exactly_ like him,” Steve says. “And it wasn’t in a vaguely familiar sort of way, it was like an exact copy. Or it was _actually_ Clint Barton and he’s back somehow, and we need to find him again so we can-”

“Clint’s _dead_ , Steve,” Bucky snaps. “He _died_.”

It’s cruel. Bucky regrets it the instant he says it but it’s true, Clint’s _gone_ and there’s nothing they can do about it. He was a goddamn hero and it happened. Steve hadn’t attended the suggested grief counselling and therapy but Bucky had, and there’s nothing good that comes from obsessing over their loss like this.

He’d thought they were getting up again - slowly, perhaps, but still moving forward.

Steve’s got that look in his eyes though. It’s the dangerous one, the one that usually ends in bruised faces and bruised knuckles and bruised hearts - the look that means Steve’s about to risk himself for something impossible. Bucky still remembers seeing it through the blurry lens of the Winter Soldier. His stomach feels like it’s filled with lead.

“He’s gone,” Bucky says.

“You were gone too,” Steve argues stubbornly. “You came back.”

“I saw him _die_ , Steve,” and his voice cracks on the memory, the blood and the shrieking and the way his hearing still goes wrong sometimes. “Please.”

Steve doesn’t know how to give up, though, and Bucky knew it was a lost cause the minute that look appeared on his face. Before that, probably. Bucky would leave if he could. For the thousandth time he curses himself for picking up that tiny idiot on the streets, curses himself for falling in love with Steve Rogers.

Ironically, he’s never cursed himself for loving Clint. It’s different. It’s not Clint’s fault there’s a scarily similar man walking around Las Vegas like he owns it. Steve’s got that stubborn set to his jaw and Bucky’s aware that if he pushes anymore, Steve’s going to run off and do this on his own. He can’t let that happen.

“We don’t even know where the guy went.”

“Then we’ll ask around,” Steve reasons. “That guard, at the- the ladies’ club. He knew. We could ask around inside, too, find out where he might be, what he’s been doing around here.”

Bucky’s about to say something snarky in reply to that, bites it back. But really, what do normal people do at a strip club? The question should be rhetorical. That poor man is going to have a bad day when Steve catches up to him. Bucky’s having a bad day already, figures it can’t get a lot worse.

“What’re you going to do when you _do_ find him?”

Steve falters at that question, looking briefly uncertain. He doesn’t know. Of _course_ he doesn’t know, because there’s no way he’s thought this through at all.

Steve doesn’t know how to think ahead - too many of his formative years were spent with his cheek pressed up against death, and he hasn’t quite comprehended that actions can have long-lasting consequences. Bucky wishes that he had that kind of mindset sometimes. He spends too much time worrying about impact instead, and maybe there’s some kind of poetic irony there.

“His name’s Clint,” Steve says to the bartender. “Six foot three, blond man?”

“Lotta people comin’ through this place,” the bartender replies with an unimpressed look. He finishes wiping the glass in his hands, sets it down with the others. He’s wearing a badge that informs them that he’s hard of hearing, so Bucky uses ASL to order the biggest glass of whiskey he has instead of interrupting. “Why you asking? Y’all cops or somethin’?”

“No,” Steve says with a frown as Bucky throws back his drink in one burning swallow and then gestures for another.

The bartender snorts at him, pours the whiskey into the glass obediently. Bucky holds onto this one, glances around the club. He’d been half-expecting criminal activity but it seems as above-board as a strip club can be, bar the drugs he can see people in the corner passing to their friends. There’s not a lot going on right now - Steve had insisted on going in a few minutes after they’d opened and there’s only one woman dancing right now, in a uniform he _thinks_ is meant to be Captain Marvel-themed.

It’s a _very_ short skirt. Bucky decides after a few minutes of observation that he doesn’t like strip clubs very much. Too much… gyrating. He misses the old dance halls all of a sudden, silently berates himself for thinking like an old man. He _is_ an old man, but still.

“He was wearing black leather, gloves and everything,” Steve tries again.

“Uh huh. You gonna order anything? ‘cause I’ve got other customers, buddy, and they’re not asking me questions I don’t have answers to.”

Bucky catches sight of the bouncer from the night before, elbows Steve in the ribs as he disappears down a corridor leading to the bathrooms. “C’mon.”

He slaps down far too much money on the bar and heads in that direction. He doesn’t look back to see if Steve’s following - he _hopes_ , because he’s fairly sure the bartender’s going to have them dragged out if there’s any more harassment there. The bouncer disappears into a room marked ‘STAFF’ and Bucky ignores it with single-minded determination.

“Hey, you’re not allowed in-”

The bouncer doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Bucky’s already got a gun pressed against his throat. A little too much, maybe, but he’s not fucking around. He wants to get this over and done with as soon as possible so he can go back to bed and forget it ever happened. There’s been enough chasing ghosts around here. The bouncer’s eyes are wide and fearful under his face tattoos.

“Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky ignores him, uses his other hand to feel around until he comes up with his cellphone. He taps the screen without taking his eyes off of the bouncer, keeps the gun up tight against skin. The bouncer’s eyes flick to the phone when he shoves it close, bringing up a photo he’d saved a good two years ago.

“This guy. What do you know.” It’s not a question.

“Uh,” the bouncer says.

Bucky shoves the gun harder against his neck, stares him down. The bouncer’s throat bobs nervously. For a guy that’s as wide as he is tall, he’s surprisingly terrified of Bucky. Then again, the worst he’s probably dealt with up until now would be drunk and disorderly patrons, not the Winter Soldier. Bucky pushes down the dark thrill at the fear in his eyes.

“You’ve got five seconds. Five,” Bucky says. “Four. Three. Two-”

“-Alright, alright! He comes here every few days, flirts with the girls. He’s weird, but he always brings a lot of cash and never causes much trouble so we let him through. Calls himself Bart. Francis Bart.”

Bucky ignores Steve’s sharp intake of breath, shoves aside the dread weighing heavy in his bones. It’s just a stupid coincidence. “Where does he live?”

“I don’t know,” the bouncer wheezes. “I really don’t know, I don’t talk to him, he just gives me the coke so he can get in early. Please don’t shoot me.”

Bucky’s fairly sure the man’s pissed himself, steps away with a grimace. He tucks the gun away and watches for a few seconds to make sure he’s not going to call for backup, then turns to find an exit that won’t involve going back through the club. Steve shifts in his peripheral vision and Bucky very purposefully doesn’t look at his expression, glances down at his phone to get rid of the photo.

It’s a good photo.

They’d gone to the beach after a particularly successful mission, and impressively, the world hadn’t gone to shit during those few hours. The picture is one he took after an exhausted Steve had fallen asleep on the hot sand and Clint had decided to turn him into a mermaid with it. Something from a show he’d watched, apparently, but Bucky had loved the delighted grin on his face.

Bucky’s eyes run over the freckles that are standing out on his cheeks, the neon purple glasses sitting on his hair that Kate had gotten him as a joke but he’d kept wearing them. Clint’s got his hands curved over Steve’s bare chest and he looks so happy that Bucky can barely stand it.

He puts the phone away. “Let’s go.”

After a call to a source who won’t ask questions about what he’s doing, Bucky ends up with a potential address on his phone and they set up camp outside the fanciest hotel he’s seen in awhile.

He’s managed to convince Steve that they should stay in the car and watch instead of just barging inside, but he can see the tension in every inch of Steve’s body. It’s unlikely this uneasy silence will last more than a few hours, if that. There’s been no sign of the person they’re looking for yet and Bucky’s half-hoping they don’t see anything at all, that it’s some kind of hallucination. Maybe a dream.

It feels like a dream.

“Francis Bart,” Steve says. “Like Clinton _Francis Bart_ on.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. Can’t find anything else to say to that. It’s too much.

“If it _is_ him, he’s not doing a very good job at being subtle,” Steve notes, gives Bucky a barely-there smile. “Thought I was supposed to be the bull in the china shop. You think he wants us to find him?”

“We don’t know if it’s him,” Bucky mutters. “And if he wanted us to find him, he would’ve come to New York and knocked on our fuckin’ front door.”

Steve doesn’t reply to that, although he looks down at his own hands like he’s going to find an answer there. He doesn’t seem to find anything and Bucky picks up the binoculars from his own lap to scan some of the higher floors of the hotel. Everything in the place is covered in either gold or glass, and it’s disgustingly high-class. Bucky’s pretty sure that was a movie star that just tipped wine all over herself.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“It’s the place I was given,” Bucky replies. “Doesn’t mean it’s right, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“I can’t imagine him up there,” Steve murmurs.

_I can’t imagine him alive,_ Bucky thinks to himself but doesn’t say out loud. Instead he grunts noncommittally and takes a look through the windows of the higher rooms. He finds a woman screaming at an older man, a young girl covered in diamonds dancing by herself. None of them are the person he’s looking for, and Bucky has to agree with Steve.

It’s weird. All of this is weird, really, but the strip clubs and five-star hotels are something else entirely. Hydra had been working on masking technology at SHIELD, stuff that would let agents pass seamlessly as another person. Natasha still uses it for missions. Bucky’s willing to bet that some of the technology had been sold off for a few quick dollars.

Looking like a dead man isn’t exactly _smart_ , but he’s not expecting a huge amount of intelligence from petty criminals. They’d probably just gone for Clint because his likeness was easy to get ahold of, and because he’s naturally disarming without being a small guy.

God, that’s going to break Steve’s heart. Bucky knew this was a bad idea.

“...what if the information was _off_ , just a little?”

“Huh?”

Bucky looks up just as Steve’s getting out, feels a quick flash of panic. He reflexively reaches out and grabs the sleeve of Steve’s shirt, gets shaken off just as quickly and tries not to let it sting. Instead he scrambles to get out of the car as well without tripping over his own feet. By the time he’s straightened up and closed the door Steve is already across the road, disappearing into a shadowed doorway next to the hotel.

Bucky reads the weathered-looking sign. Ah. An abandoned pizzeria would get Steve’s attention if they’re looking for Clint. It’s _not_ Clint, so Steve’s probably just going to hurt himself running around in a building that looks like it’s a few breaths away from collapsing into a pile of rubble. Fucking hell, he never gets a break, does he?

He gets to the entrance just as there’s an ominous rattling noise and a bang, but when he turns his flashlight on it’s just an alarmingly large rat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, raises his voice. “Steve?”

There’s no answer. Shit. He should’ve just mentioned the masking technology the second he’d thought of it. He doesn’t want to go wandering around in the ruins of a dark building without reason.

It’s weird at his age, to be scared of the dark. And Bucky’s _not_ scared of the dark, but he also knows there’s a lot of things hiding in the shadows that he doesn’t want anything to do with.

There’s a scuffling noise above his head and he looks up in time to see a flash of _something_ moving on the second floor. The reason he can see what’s going on up there is because it’s mostly collapsed, and Bucky’s going to _kill_ Steve Rogers for this shit. The world’s just going to have to learn to deal without Captain America. He climbs the rickety stairs quickly, catches a shadow heading into a room to the side.

“Fuck’s sake, Steve,” Bucky says as he pushes into the room.

There’s no one there.

It’s completely empty, just cold concrete walls and a single chair that looks like it’s going to fall apart. There’s also a window that’s missing its glass, the moonlight illuminating the room. Surely Steve isn’t pulling that parkour shit again? He approaches it and sticks his head out the window, looks out onto the street.

Nothing.

He sighs heavily and turns around, only to come face-to-face with a ghost.

There’s nothing else it could be because that’s definitely Clint Barton standing in front of him, down to every last freckle and scar. He’s wearing a pair of purple sunglasses and the mohawk is new but even the way he’s standing is _painfully_ , horrifically familiar. It’s not possible. It can’t be-

“Heya, Buck,” Clint says. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

His breath catches as he’s shoved down into a chair, suddenly assaulted by memories and the feelings associated with them - Clint’s lips brushing his throat, his hands gently pinning Bucky’s as he whispers _stay right there for me, yeah? Gonna be good for me?_ \- and he feels hot underneath his skin. His hands aren’t pinned this time but he stays where he is anyway as Clint straddles his thighs, sits down heavy in his lap.

Not a ghost, then. Ghosts aren’t warm when they touch you, he’s pretty sure.

“Clint,” he says hoarsely, and Clint drapes his arms around Bucky’s neck comfortably.

Bucky’s heart is in his throat. He’s got to say _something_ , as Clint visibly looks him up and down without removing the glasses, smirks a little. It’s flirty and strange and completely _impossible_. “I thought you were- I watched you, I saw the _blood_ -”

“Shh,” Clint says, presses a finger to his lips.

Bucky can smell vodka and too-strong cologne on his skin. He doesn’t know if he wants to scream or start crying. Instead Clint kisses him, wet and teasing and so goddamn familiar that Bucky nearly starts crying anyway. His fingertips are searing a brand into Bucky’s skin, and his teeth graze Bucky’s lip just enough to sting, enough for Bucky to inhale shakily through his nose.

Clint’s hips roll down onto him in a smooth motion and Bucky makes a noise, can’t help himself. It’s just _so much_ , so much time spent regretting and wanting and hating himself for things he couldn’t change. He’s half-hard in his pants and fucking distraught, doesn’t know what to do.

“I was so lost without you,” Bucky says hoarsely when he draws back. “We were- _Clint_.”

Steve was right. Oh god, Steve was _right_. Bucky had been so busy preparing for Steve being wrong that he hadn’t even considered preparing for his own mistakes. His mouth is tingling. Clint kisses him again and the tingling gets worse, like he’s standing in a field of pure static electricity.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Clint tells him, tucks a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. There’s a sting of hot tears in his eyes and all he can do is stare at Clint’s face and the faint smirk that’s there.

“I-” Bucky starts, and then the door crashes open.

Steve’s got blood on his face and a panicked look on his face, and it only gets worse when he sees Clint and Bucky together. He stops in the doorway, white as a sheet and breathing heavily. Bucky can’t find the words he wants, just glances between Steve and Clint.

“Bucky, there’s something-” Steve says as a dark shape shoves him out of the way and shoots at them.

Clint seems to fall to the ground in slow-motion and Bucky’s frozen in horror as he slumps to the ground. It’s then that he notices the wickedly curved knife clutched in Clint’s fingers and he doesn’t know where to look, at Steve or the shooter or Clint’s motionless body. What the hell had he been holding onto a knife for?

“...wrong with Clint,” Steve finishes, as Sharon Carter tucks her gun away.


	2. Chapter 2

_“And that’s the last stitch,” Steve announces._

_Clint stretches out his legs and grimaces. He’s pale but still aware enough to curl himself into Bucky’s chest once the medical evaluation is over, tugs Steve close until they’re sandwiching him between them. Bucky uses his phone to check the extraction time, faintly worried even though Clint’s had a lot worse._

_They all have, really._

_Still, there’s a special kind of stressed involved in sitting in a forest in the middle of nowhere when your boyfriend’s sustaining multiple stab wounds. Clint’s got Bucky’s undershirt fisted tight in his hands like he’s scared they’re going to slip away between his fingers, but his breathing is steady. Steve curves a careful hand around Clint’s waist. He hasn’t taken off the medical gloves and blood smears on Clint’s bare skin accidentally._

_“Hey,” Bucky says softly. “Hey, Clint. Baby.”_

_Clint lifts his head with some effort to blink up at him and Bucky pulls out the neon purple band-aid from his pocket, sticks it over the cut on the bridge of Clint’s nose. He makes sure Clint sees the colour before he sticks it on and it earns him a soft smile and a quick bark of laughter from Steve._

_“Did you have that just for me?” Clint’s voice wobbles a little on the question, just a tiny thing that wouldn’t be noticeable if it wasn’t for supersoldier hearing._

_“No,” Bucky says dryly. “It’s for Steve, because we all know he gets hurt all the time and loves purple."_

“It was just a tranquilizer dart,” Sharon says.

Bucky can’t quite stop himself from glaring when he looks at her, so he looks at the floor of the Quinjet instead. He’s firmly tucked under Steve’s broad arm because he can’t stop shaking and he’s not particularly in the mood for reasoning with her. Contacting Sharon for the address had been smart because she hadn’t asked him why he wanted it. Contacting Sharon for the address had been _stupid_ because she’d just shown up instead.

Underneath the sick churn of his stomach and the horror is a hot burn of embarrassment that he can’t quite shake off. All that talk about Steve rushing in and getting himself killed and _Bucky_ had been the one that had dropped his guard the second he’d come face-to-face with his dead (second) boyfriend. Fuck, he’s an idiot.

“You’re okay?” Steve’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“No,” Bucky answers. “Are you- the blood?”

“Already healed,” Steve says ruefully. “Just caught me off-guard. Did you notice the agents outside, when we went inside that building?”

He hadn’t noticed them. _Neither_ of them had, and that’s worrying. They’ve both got a massive blind spot in the shape of one Clint Barton, and it could’ve gotten him killed if Sharon hadn’t been there.

The knife had been meant for him. There's a mark on the back of his neck that he hadn't even _felt_ when it was happening. Bucky doesn’t look at the handcuffed shape slumped in the corner. Sharon’s got the tranquilizer gun in her hand again just in case and he’s as far away as he can get without being completely out of view. He’s not looking directly at the man, but he doesn’t feel quite safe taking his attention away either.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Sharon’s question is directed at Steve, so Bucky just listens. He’s not sure he could say anything anyway.

“No,” Steve says. “He tried to attack me, but when he touched my chest it was like it burned him.”

“Hmm.”

Sharon seems to mull that over quietly and Bucky tries to ignore it all until Steve jerks suddenly, starts wriggling around. Bucky shifts out of the way just in case, watches as Steve unzips his jacket and sticks a hand underneath his blood-smeared shirt. What the hell is he doing now?

Steve pulls out a tiny silver cross on a chain. Bucky doesn’t know how he’s managed to hold onto his mother’s cross for the better part of eighty years, but that’s Steve for you. “I think _this_ burned him,” Steve says puzzledly, turns his stare on Sharon.

“Demons don’t like the cross,” Sharon tells him, not unkindly.

“The portal,” Steve says. “He was-?”

“Probably,” Sharon answers. “I’m surprised it took them this long to surface, with an Avenger as a free ride. Human skin suits are pretty useful compared with their normal form. Apparently he’s been in Vegas for a few weeks, hasn’t done much more than sell drugs and deface government property. Think he was laying low.”

“Right,” Steve says. Doesn’t say anything else. He’s still got one hand clasped over his cross but he uses the other to feel around for Bucky’s, blindly seeking comfort. Bucky grabs him back, tight enough to hurt if it wasn’t for Erskine’s serum.

Sharon sighs and rubs at her forehead. She’s frowning like this whole situation is giving her a migraine and Bucky can’t blame her. It’s not like any of them were expecting this. He wonders if the demon would’ve actually killed him in that empty room if they hadn’t been interrupted. The chances are pretty high - if it had known there were agents outside, it would’ve known that escape was futile.

“So he’s… possessed?”

“You’re asking me? I don’t know anything about demons,” Sharon retorts. “I fight criminals most of the time, not this supernatural garbage. Shouldn’t _you_ know?”

“We just punch things,” Bucky says. “You’re overestimating us.”

It’s not strictly true - neither of them are stupid, and Steve can be a master tactician when it calls for it, but the occult isn’t in their combined skillsets. It’s a good thing they’re heading for the Tower. Tony and Bruce have more research-based backgrounds and Tony’s recently made friends with Stephen Strange, and Stephen Strange seems like the kind of person that knows about this shit.

“It’s his body, though,” Steve says thoughtfully.

Bucky’s relieved that they’re not alone in this. He’s not exactly being smart about this, and Steve’s impulse control is zero. They need the team on this. Shit, he should’ve texted Natasha. “Did you contact-”

“I called ahead,” Sharon says. “Didn’t explain why. Thought I’d leave that up to you two. They might not have believed me without the evidence anyway.”

The evidence. Right. Bucky looks without meaning to, catches dark shadows on pale skin and the dark gold of Clint’s eyelashes against his face. It had been raining when the agents had carried him onto the Quinjet and his fringe is plastered to his forehead in messy strands that are dripping trails of shiny water down his cheeks.

Like this, it’s impossible to tell that anything’s wrong with him. He’s just- _beautiful_ , Bucky’s traitorous brain supplies, and his throat closes up on the thought. God, he’s right there within arm’s reach and Bucky can’t touch him, can’t do anything until they figure out what’s going on. Are they going to have to exorcise him?

Bucky’s watched The Exorcist. He didn’t like it.

Come to think of it, it had been Clint who had made him watch it, on a restless night when he’d been struggling to get to sleep. He hadn’t enjoyed the movie but he’d enjoyed Clint’s head in his lap, warm breath on his thigh through his pajama pants.

He doesn’t want to think about it. Doesn’t want to give himself hope.

He can’t help it.

_Could_ they get Clint back?

“Is this really necessary?”

Tony turns to give Steve an incredulous look. “You want a _demon_ with Barton’s skills running around this place? I’ve got people to protect, Rogers, and you know how lethal he was _without_ being a resident of hell.”

Bucky’s still staring at the containment unit. There’s some kind of reinforced glass between them and the motionless shape that’s been dropped on the thin mattress, strong enough to survive a nuclear blast - Tony’s words, but apparently it was built for the Hulk. It’s a bare enclosure, barely even a room and without the privacy. Even the toilet is within full view and Bucky turns away from it, faces Steve and Tony instead.

“We could…” Steve starts, but he doesn’t finish the sentence because he knows Tony’s right. “Are we _sure_ the demon has Clint’s skills?”

“It’s got his memories,” Bucky says, and they both look at him. _Fuck_ , now he has to elaborate. “It spoke to me like- like Clint used to. Makes sense it’d be able to fight like him too.”

There’s no way they can put it anywhere else if it does have Clint’s abilities. Hawkeye was dangerous enough to be on a team of superhumans without any robot suits or magical powers, and if the demon has those _and_ powers it’s a massive risk they can’t take. It’s a threat. It’s a nightmare. Bucky wishes Clint was here to drag him away from all the shit.

He’s not, though.

Fucking hell.

Bucky catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and lets out an inaudible sigh of relief when Natasha walks into the room. She’s in yoga pants and a soft blouse rather than mission gear like them, but there’s something wordlessly reassuring about her presence regardless of her clothing choices. Her eyes land on Bucky and she chooses to stand next to him, folds her arms across her chest.

“What’s the plan?”

“We try and get rid of it,” Tony says, but he doesn’t sound sure.

“What do we need?” Steve glances at the containment unit, back at Tony. “Holy water? Salt?”

“A priest?” Bucky tries.

“I’m going to talk to some people and try to figure it out,” Tony says. He pulls a phone out of his pocket and sets an earpiece in his ear, clicks a few buttons with practised ease. They all watch him walk away in silence, and then Steve sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, looking weary. Bucky knows how he feels.

“Well,” Natasha says. “Somehow this isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened to him, despite everything. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

She makes a good point.

There’s a quiet, slightly pained groan from behind them and Steve freezes. They all turn as the demon sits up heavily, slumps to the side for a few seconds. Sharon’s tranquilizer darts are strong enough to take down the Hulk if needed - it’s surprising that the drugs have worn off so quickly. _Not human,_ Bucky reminds himself silently as Clint’s face swivels around to look at the opposite wall of the containment unit and then up at the roof.

No one says anything as Clint’s hair is pushed back into some semblance of style. Bucky wants to check on Natasha but he can’t _quite_ look away from the scene in front of him, the slight sway as the body inside the containment unit gets to its feet and turns around.

There’s a split second where Clint’s face is just broadcasting blatant fear and Bucky’s breath stops in his lungs. Steve jerks forward like he’s going to open the barrier and Natasha grabs his wrist before it’s too late, never taking her eyes off of the containment unit.

“Clint?” Steve’s voice is shaking.

“Steve? Is this some kind of a bad dream or somethin’?” It’s a hundred percent Clint’s voice, down to the hint of Iowa that creeps in around the edges. “I’m not a fan of your little Tupperware container you’ve got here, I got claustrophobia.”

A tiny thread of hope sews itself into Bucky’s chest. Clint _does_ hate enclosed spaces with a passion - planes are okay, but if there’s no practical need he’s happier on a rooftop or in an open field. Steve used to say it was because his personality was too big to fit into anything smaller. He’s closer to the barrier now, wide blue eyes and arms curled around himself.

“Is it really you?”

Steve’s gotten closer now, taking tiny steps one at a time. Natasha doesn’t stop him and Bucky doesn’t join him. He feels sick, edges a little sideways so his hip is brushing against Natasha’s. She lets him take the small piece of comfort, keeps her eyes on Steve and Clint’s body.

A hand presses up against the glass.

Steve reaches up shakily, goes to match it on their side. Before he gets the chance, Clint’s other hand balls into a fist and punches the glass a few inches from Steve’s face.

Fingers bounce off with an audible crack and Steve flinches back as a scowl overtakes the demon’s face, twists it into something unrecognizable. The glass is completely unaffected, unlike the human fist that had tried to break it. The demon’s eyes are black now. It shakes out Clint’s hand roughly as the bones click back into place audibly and then it looks at their faces and _laughs_.

“Oh, Stevie, Stevie, _Stevie_. So gullible,” it says. “Poor baby.”

Steve steps back.

_“What’re you reading?”_

_“Nothing,” Clint says immediately, shoves the wad of paper off of the table. He’s got a flush on his cheeks and a flash of panic in his eyes that Bucky feels briefly guilty about as he curls his arms around Clint’s shoulders. Still, he’s not above teasing Clint every now and then - especially when Clint’s acting so suspicious - so he tries not to feel too bad about it._

_“Didn’t look like nothing,” Bucky replies, catches Clint’s earlobe with his teeth just for the shiver it earns him._

_Steve pops up on the other side of the desk with Clint’s badly-hidden treasure in his hands. “They still sell these?”_

_Clint groans and tries to hide his face in his hands as Steve holds it up to Bucky. It’s a beaten-up comic book, one that’s so old and weathered that the colours have almost completely faded. Bucky can barely recognize the little man on the cover, and then he sees the star on the chest and has to muffle his snickers into Clint’s soft hair._

_“Captain America and Friends,” Steve reads aloud. “Hey Buck, you’re in here too.”_

_“This the one where I’m a kid in tights? ‘cos that shit’s weird.”_

_“You look fine in tights,” Steve says. “And no. There_ is _a panel where you’re mostly naked. though. Look at that.”_

_“Hot,” Bucky replies, holds onto Clint while he inspects it. It’s far too old to be something Clint’s just picked up randomly and judging from the increasing levels of embarrassment coming off of him in waves, it’s not someone else’s property. “Hey, how long have you had a crush on me’n’Steve?”_

_“Since I was old enough to be attracted to people,” Clint says, his voice muffled by his hands, and Bucky and Steve share a delighted look with each other._

“I’m going for a run and then I’m heading down to the basement,” Steve says, shifts on his feet. “Are you- do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here?"

There’s no judgement in the way he asks the question. Bucky’s welcome to follow him down to the containment unit and keep him company, but he’s equally welcome to just stay curled up in bed wearing an oversized Black Widow hoodie that doesn’t belong to him. (His therapist hadn’t banned him from keeping Clint’s wardrobe and he holds onto that.)

“Maybe later,” Bucky answers eventually.

“Okay,” Steve says, but he doesn’t move.

There’s uncertainty written on his face and Bucky thinks maybe there _is_ a wrong answer to this question, but then Steve wanders into the kitchen to get a bottle of water and when he comes back, he looks more collected. Bucky wraps his fingers around his mug a little tighter and leans back against the pillows.

“I want to see if I can reach him somehow,” Steve says. "Not the demon. Clint. There's got to be a way."

Of _course_ he does.

“Okay,” Bucky answers, and it comes out hesitant.

“Okay,” Steve repeats.

Bucky’s not expecting the kiss, but that doesn’t make it any less welcome as Steve’s hand cups his jaw to tip his face up. Steve’s mouth is soft on his, the familiarity as reassuring as it’s always been. Bucky’s half-tempted to grab onto him and refuse to let go. That’s not how it works, though, and soon enough Steve’s drawing back to press another quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead before he leaves.

A bird shrieks outside his window. The sound is muffled by the glass and his hearing deciding to misbehave at that exact moment, so it comes out as more of a distant scream. Bucky blinks at it blearily and watches as it dances along the windowsill curiously, inspecting its own reflection curiously.

Bucky drinks his coffee while he observes it, wonders if you can appeal to a demon. Would it agree to bargaining? Probably not. It’s a demon anyway - whatever it’d want, the price would be too high to pay. Steve wouldn’t think that, though.

Shit.

Yeah, he should probably get off his ass.

He’s still wearing Clint’s hoodie, tries not to think too hard about it as he heads for the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients. Taking breakfast down gives him a reason to be there beyond worrying about Steve - and he needs a good reason to go down there or he’s going to put it off until nightfall, or longer. He needs to go down there.

“Barnes,” Sam greets as he slips past, grabs the juice out of the fridge.

“Wilson.”

Bucky sees him drink it straight from the carton out of the corner of his eye, scowls and keeps reading the instructions on the pancake mix. He doesn’t bother telling Sam he’s disgusting. If Sam cared he would’ve stopped the first twenty times. Bucky reaches around him and snatches the carton of blueberries before he can eat those as well.

“You sharing?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, butters the frying pan.

Sam grumbles something distinctly unfriendly under his breath and puts the juice back in the fridge. Bucky’s hearing has returned to him, but he still pretends he doesn’t hear the words. It’s not like Sam actually means them anyway, he’s just being a dick. Bucky should make bacon as well. Bacon is good. Maybe some eggs on top of that.

“You’re overdoing it,” Sam says.

“Eat a dick.”

“Judging from this motherload, I won’t need to,” Sam answers, leaning up against the counter where he can watch. “We’ll be living off of leftovers for the next week. This a stress thing?”

“No,” Bucky says.

“Alright,” Sam says. “If you’re not stressed, it’ll be fine to talk about it. You want a cross to carry around, then? Some holy water?”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky repeats sharply, doesn’t want to think about why he’s not fond of the idea. It’d mean acknowledging it, maybe, or maybe it’s because he’s too weak to keep any aspect of Clint Barton away even if it’d hurt him. He hopes that it isn’t the latter.

“You remember that night after we took down Hood? I wasn’t- it was all so new,” Steve says. “I’d spend hours just sitting by a window staring at everything that’d changed. Even the food felt wrong. I couldn’t do anything properly except fight bad guys and come up with new plans to fight bad guys.”

There’s a quiet sigh.

“That pizza you gave me was _terrible_. Pineapples don’t belong with meat and cheese,” he continues. “It was- I still don’t understand why you liked it so much. Still snapped me out of it. I don’t think I ever thanked you for it, Clint.”

“He can’t hear you, you know."

“I owe you a lot,” Steve admits. “I think I dropped the ball, assuming you’d died. We all did, but we’re going to get you back. Whatever it takes.”

He inhales shakily, noisy in the silence of the room like he’s holding back from putting any emotion in his voice. Bucky sags against the wall he’s standing by, looks up at the ceiling like it’s going to fix this. He’s out of view, so he can’t see Steve’s expression - he’s not sure he wants to, really. It feels too private to be witnessing any more than this.

“Who would’ve thought Captain America was so pathetic,” the demon observes. “Hey, you want to hear a secret? It’ll be fun, I swear.”

“I’m not talking to _you_ ,” Steve tells it, and the demon laughs at him.

“Who else would you be talking to? Your other boyfriend who’s pretending he isn’t listening to your dramatic lamenting? Makes you wonder who’s more important.”

Right. It’s Bucky’s time to intervene, then. He juggles the plates of food onto one arm so he can push the door to the room open all the way and slip inside. It’s hard to tell exactly where the demon is looking due to the lack of irises and pupils, but its head is tilted in Bucky’s direction. There’s a sharp smirk on its face and it waves at him cheerfully from behind the glass.

Steve’s sitting at a desk a few meters from the containment unit, face in his hands. The worry strikes Bucky quick and hard, has him striding up to Steve before the demon can make another comment.

“Steve, food.”

Steve lifts his head up and his eyes light up a little when he sees the plate of breakfast. There’s way more food than strictly necessary, but Bucky is what Natasha likes to call a ‘stress baker’ and apparently it stretches beyond the baking and into meals when your dead boyfriend is possessed by a demon. It’s a good thing that Steve eats enough for an army.

Bucky sits down and passes it over. He strategically places himself in Steve’s eyeline, blocking the demon from view. It’s true that the demon could just _move_ to continue harassing him but Bucky’s hoping it might be too lazy for that. Sure enough, there’s a sigh from behind the glass and nothing else, and Bucky relaxes an inch.

“Thanks for this, Buck,” Steve says through a mouthful of food.

“It’s nothing,” Bucky answers, props his chin on one hand to watch. “Spoken to Stark yet?”

“Not yet. I spoke to Pepper, though - he left the Tower early this morning to talk to Doctor Strange about it.”

“You think he’ll come up with something?”

“If he doesn’t, we may as well try a traditional exorcism,” Steve says with a shrug. “I was looking online and it seems fairly simple. I’m sure we can find a priest who’d be willing to help.”

Bucky’s not sure if it’ll work, but he’s not sure Steve is either. “Guess it’s worth a go.”

Steve’s phone rings then from where it’s sitting on the desk, Tony’s picture appearing on the screen like they’ve summoned him just from mentioning him alone. Bucky wonders if he’s watching them. Obviously he’d have surveillance on the area, but it’s unlikely he’d just sit there and keep an eye on the demon for the whole day.

Steve stands up. “They’ve got a lead.” He pauses for a second, frowns. “We probably shouldn’t leave it unsupervised. Do you want to go and…?”

“Nah,” Bucky says before he can lose his nerve. He can’t let Steve take all of the emotional pain the demon’s dishing out, it wouldn’t be fair. Steve’s better at getting things done anyway. “You go.”

“You sure?”

“Get going before I change my mind, punk,” Bucky replies.

The flicker of relief in Steve’s eyes tell him he’s made the right decision, and he snatches a strip of bacon before the plate is picked up. He wonders if it was this hard for Steve when he was sorting Bucky Barnes from the Winter Soldier, decides he’d rather not know. The thought is too upsetting.

Steve says something else to him but Bucky’s hearing has given up the ghost again and he just signs _okay_ back at him quickly, winces a little when Steve frowns. He still goes, though, and Bucky’s left alone with the last thing he wants to be alone with. Bucky turns his chair so he can keep an eye on it just in case.

“-not as much fun as your action figure boy toy,” the demon’s saying when his hearing returns about ten minutes later. “I wasn’t going to hurt you too much, baby, I was just having a little fun.”

“Were you?” The doubt seeps into his voice like the ice in his veins.

The demon laughs. “Yeah, okay, you got me. I was going to slice you apart and leave the pieces for dear old Captain America to find. You think he’d have the balls to fight me properly if I did?”

_Shut the fuck up,_ Bucky signs at it sharply. It’s just trying to upset him, and he’s not giving it the satisfaction. Still, he watches as it tips Clint’s chin up at the reply, looks curious.

“Very fluid,” the demon notes as it signs along with the same easy movements Clint had used, before. “How come? Your little deaf boyfriend wasn’t around for you to need the ASL. Doesn’t seem like something you’d keep learning if you didn’t have to.”

_The explosion,_ Bucky signs. Why is he humouring it? _I was too close when the portal closed. Doctors said it healed, but my brain still remembers the hearing loss or something. I don’t know._

“You weren’t listening?” The demon’s lips quirk up into a smirk. “Couldn’t hear them? How the tables turn. Does Steve know how to sign too?”

_No_ , Bucky answers shortly. Steve’s bad at the whole deft hand movement thing, and he forgets the signs for things within a few minutes of learning them. He’d been terrible at it with Clint, too. It’s not his fault and Clint hadn’t really cared, but it had bothered Steve for a while.

The demon mulls that over for a minute and then taps the glass to get Bucky’s attention again, grins at him with teeth that are far too sharp to be human. “Weird. You want to hear that secret I didn’t get to tell Steve?”

“Not really,” Bucky says out loud.

“Cool,” it replies. “So if you exorcise me, Clint Barton’s body will die too.”

_“Steve!”_

_“What?”_

_Bucky sticks his head back out of the walk-in closet, doesn’t bother covering himself up. It doesn’t matter because Steve’s more interested in doing up his shoelaces than eyeing off the naked curves of Bucky’s body. He doesn’t take it personally - sometimes it feels like they’re an old married couple and the ease and comfort is kind of nice anyway._

_“Have you seen my clothes?"_

_Steve glances up from his feet. “There’s nothing in there?”_

_“Nothing that belongs to me,” Bucky replies. He’s fairly sure he had more clothes than what’s in the closet, but all he can find is one pair of jeans and his underwear. There’s not a single shirt to be found in there that’s actually his. “Did we get some kind of thief that likes me in particular?”_

_“You’re just bad at putting things in the laundry basket,” Steve says. “And then actually washing the clothes. Would it kill you to wash some clothes, Buck?”_

_“Yes,” Bucky tells him. “Where’s Clint?”_

_Steve wordlessly points at the Barton-shaped lump under the duvet. Only a couple of bandage-wrapped fingers are visible from where Bucky’s standing, and he can hear the snoring without moving an inch. Bucky snorts and Steve reaches for the sheets, peels it back to reveal a comfortably sleeping Clint._

_He seems completely unaware that they’re staring at him. Oh, to be able to sleep without the slightest issue with an audience. Bucky doesn’t know how Clint does it. For a man that’s taller than Steve and Bucky, he looks quite small curled up like this, bruises smudged along his throat and shirt riding up his stomach to reveal miles of bare skin._

_It’s then that Bucky realizes the shirt is his._

_Right. Guess he’ll just steal one of Clint’s hoodies, then._

_It’s only fair._


	3. Chapter 3

“It’s lying to you,” Steve insists. “The demon’s spent the whole time trying to mess with our heads. Right?”

“But what if it isn’t?”

“It just wants to stop us from getting rid of it,” Steve says. “Clearly it doesn’t want to leave, and it’s trying to save itself by telling us that it’ll kill Clint if we try the exorcism.”

“What were the exact words it used?” Natasha looks to Bucky.

Tony, sitting next to her, looks like he’s got an acute headache forming. Natasha ignores his groan and continues watching Bucky. She’s the only one that looks somewhat unaffected by all this. Chances are that it’s an act and she’s just as distressed as they are, but Bucky has to be impressed by how well she covers it up. The rest of them aren’t trained and it’s a row of exhausted and stressed expressions all around.

“It said ‘if you exorcise me, Clint Barton’s body will die too,’” he recites flatly.

“Like it’s going to kill him?”

“If it was going to kill Clint then it would’ve said that, surely,” Natasha says thoughtfully. “It’s certainly threatened Steve and Bucky without any qualms, why would it bother with such a cryptic description?”

The way Natasha says it implies that the demon hasn’t threatened her when she’s been down there, and Bucky wonders if it’s because the demon has seen something in Clint’s memories that has made it decide that’s a bad idea or because she hasn’t been down there that much. Both are reasonable options. It _is_ Natasha, after all.

“So what _does_ it mean?”

“It sounds more like a prophecy,” Tony notes. “Like something that’ll just happen without any input from the demon itself.”

“Is that normal for an exorcism? Do we have any examples of things like that happening to other people who were possessed, or is this unique to Clint’s body in particular?” Steve pulls out his phone and starts tapping.

Tony sighs and gestures at the ceiling, and a screen appears in the middle of the desk. A few articles show up, along with blog entries and two muted videos that are almost too dark to see. They all go quiet as they take in the extra information, but there’s nothing there that suggests the exorcism would kill Clint along the way.

“So either it’s bullshit…” Tony starts.

“...or there’s something we don’t know,” Steve finishes. “We can’t risk losing Clint if it’s true.”

“Gotta bring our bird back to roost,” Tony agrees. “Our _first_ bird, Wilson, don’t make that face at me. You’re a special boy too.”

“I’m making ‘that face’ because we have a demon wearing _Barton’s_ face locked in the basement,” Sam retorts. “Do you not get how fucked up that is? I walked past and it started melting its own flesh off. I could smell it for hours.”

“It’s just fucking with you,” Bucky mutters.

“I know that,” Sam says, folds his arms across his chest. “It’s still like some shit out of a horror movie.”

“It’s pretty bad,” Bruce admits. “I can’t go in there anymore. It upsets the other guy too much, seeing it. He was pretty close to Clint before… well, before.”

The whole table falls silent at that, and the memories swirling around have a physical weight to them. Bucky remembers Clint clambering all over the Hulk’s shoulders comfortably without the slightest bit of concern for his own safety. They were _all_ too close to Clint before they lost him. It’s part of who Clint was - he had that ability to befriend _everyone_ and he’d succeeded pretty well before the portal to hell had taken him away from them.

Sure, Bucky and Steve were the ones dating him, but he’d loved all of them.

“It let slip with Barnes,” Tony reasons. “Maybe it’ll tell him more if he goes back?”

“It was going to tell Steve before that,” Bucky says. He doesn’t want to throw Steve to the wolves, but he doesn’t want this whole thing to ride on his shoulders. “It’s just that I listened to what it had to say.”

“ _That’s_ what that was about?”

Steve looks guilty at that and Bucky grabs for his hand without any regard for the other people watching them. It’s not like they haven’t seen physical affection before. He feels bad for dumping it on Steve in front of everyone - it’s not like they’d had time to discuss it privately, though.

“We could do it together?” Steve suggests quietly.

It seems like the sensible option. “Okay.”

“Hey there, hot stuff,” the demon drawls when Bucky walks into view. “Oh, I learned a new trick. Wanna see?”

“No,” Bucky says flatly as Steve walks around the corner. The demon scrunches up its nose at the sight of him, steps up to the glass barrier and presses its face to it. Steve frowns and the demon grins needle-sharp teeth at them, flicks out a forked tongue. Bucky tries not to react to its antics in the slightest, hopes his expression isn’t giving anything away.

“This is a terrible idea,” Bucky says to Steve. “Couldn’t we just- I don’t know, look online?”

“We tried that,” Steve reminds him.

Right. They hadn’t found anything, either. Bucky’s sigh is loud enough that the demon snickers at them both. When Bucky looks back to the containment unit, it’s making an obscene gesture with its hands. It’s not as bad as the violence or the nasty words, so Bucky chooses to ignore it. Steve’s looking stressed but determined, and he’s the one to step closer.

“We have questions,” Steve says, and Bucky jerks into motion, stands next to him.

The demon rubs his chin with a few fingers thoughtfully. Its hands look _wrong_ somehow and Bucky realizes a second later that the skin is bubbling in tiny, unsettling movements. He winces. There’s blood underneath its jagged fingernails and Bucky wonders if demons can feel pain at all or whether pain is strictly a human thing.

Animals feel pain, don’t they? Demons aren’t animals, though. They’re- Bucky’s not sure what demons are, because they’re far more horrifying than the tales his ma used to tell him to keep him out of trouble. (It hadn’t worked, mostly because he was already attached to Steve and _Steve_ is the physical embodiment of trouble.)

“Questions,” the demon says. Makes a _hrm_ noise. “You want to know what it’s like down there?”

Bucky thinks about the other demons he’d seen on the day they’d lost Clint. Most of them hadn’t even looked _humanoid_ , just shapeless masses from the depths of nightmares. The memory feels like a haze but he recalls teeth and claws and oozing red slime that made his eyes burn. Yeah, he really doesn’t want to know what hell looks like.

“All you can hear is the screaming,” the demon says with a distant stare. “It follows you.”

There’s a beat of silence where they all take that in and then the demon looks up again, the sharp grin returning. Something that might be blood is sluggishly leaking from its eyes and ears, and Steve grimaces but the demon doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe it’s pretending not to notice to try and unnerve them.

“We want to know what you meant- what you said to Bucky,” Steve says. “What did you mean when you said Clint’s body would die if we performed an exorcism?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“We won’t kill you right now,” Bucky snaps.

The demon regards him curiously. “You’d do it, then? I doubt it.”

It takes all of his self-control not to growl at the creature. Bucky’s suddenly grateful that there’s no way he can get into the containment unit by force because he’s a few seconds away from putting his fist through the glass to get at the demon’s throat.

Except he can’t, because the demon still looks far too much like Clint for him to be able to. Bucky’s sigh comes out as more of a snarling noise. The demon snorts at him.

“Fine, this one is free,” it says. “If you exorcise me, you get a corpse. There’s nothing left of your little friend except for his physical form, and even _that’s_ partially demonic.”

“What?"

“He’s dead,” the demon says. “Kaput. Kicked the bucket. Passed away. Gave up the ghost. I’m the only tenant in this building, baby. Your little archer boy was torn apart in the depths of hell and it’d take powers you don’t have to bring him back.”

Steve looks at Bucky like he’s trying very hard to ignore the demon. He looks pale. Bucky’s not sure he’s succeeding at his self-appointed task. “You think it’s lying?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky admits reluctantly.

Steve purses his lips. There’s a worrying _thunk_ from the direction of the containment unit and Bucky flicks his gaze over there to find the demon doing something upsetting with Clint’s joints. Bucky can’t quite get over Clint’s face looking like _that_ , twisted into expressions Clint wouldn’t make. Better to keep looking at Steve’s face instead. Steve is normal. Safe. Comforting.

They're not always good at this, but at least they've got each other.

“We’ll figure it out,” Steve says finally, and Bucky nods.

Steve turns around and starts walking out. Bucky doesn’t follow for a moment, hangs back for a reason that’s half-formed and senseless in his head. He turns without meaning to and ends up with his eyes laid on the containment unit again.

The demon licks the blood off of its lips and Bucky’s stomach does a sick flip at the pink curl of its tongue.

_“Should I get a condom?”_

_“No,” Clint answers Steve before Bucky can, smiles soft and pleased. “We’re married, Buck. Or we would be if three-way marriages were allowed.”_

_He’s stretched out on their faded sheets like some sort of a fallen angel, all scars and golden skin and calloused hands curled into the blankets, fingernails flecked with silver polish where Kate’s been messing with them. He’s fucking breathtaking. Bucky wants to cry._

_Clint hooks a leg around Bucky’s hip to tug him closer, arches up a little when Bucky’s skin touches his and makes a soft noise that Bucky wants to taste. Steve’s lips brush Bucky’s shoulder and he leans into it, keeps watching Clint. His eyes are so blue - not the kind of deep, senseless blue that Steve’s are, a soft cornflower that’s vibrant even in the moonlight glow._

_“You’re a fucking tease, Barnes,” Clint says breathlessly. “Come on, it’s been so long. Wanna feel you inside me.”_

_Clint’s hard and Bucky’s eyes get caught on that too, the wet bead of precome at the tip. It shouldn’t be allowed, this kind of helpless love that swells up in his ribcage and feels so big that it aches. He can’t do anything except give Clint what he wants and revel in the little punched-out noise when his dick brushes Clint’s._

_“I love you so fucking much,” Bucky breathes._

_“Aw, baby,” Clint says, grinning up at him as the blood starts dripping from his mouth. “This is nice, but you gotta stop pining over a dead man.”_

_His eyes are black now and his fingers reach up to cup the back of Bucky’s skull, draws him close so their noses are brushing. It’s oddly chaste beyond the fear racing in Bucky’s veins and he can feel the demon’s breath on his face. It smells coppery and sour and Bucky can’t move an inch, he’s just an audience for this, a voyeur in his own nightmare._

_“I’m a lost cause, Buck,” he murmurs, so close that the blood smears on Bucky’s lips._

Bucky jerks awake so hard that he tumbles off the mattress and hits the floorboards with a thump. His heart’s beating so fast that he doesn’t even realize where he is for a few seconds, thinks the cold surface underneath him is a grave. It doesn’t help that his legs are tangled so tightly in the sheets that he can’t move them.

_Fuck_. He covers his eyes with his hand and tries to breathe.

“Buck?”

For a second his blurry eyes see Clint and then he blinks and it’s just Steve, looking sleep-rumpled and worried. Bucky just stares at him for a few seconds, chest heaving with the effort of trying to feel like he’s breathing properly again. His face feels wet and he’s not sure if it’s sweat or tears. He doesn’t say anything reassuring even though he wants to, and Steve slides off the bed as well to hold him close.

They don’t get off of the floor for a while.

Bucky’s there long enough that the floorboards turn warm under his legs. His head feels like someone’s been drilling into it. Eventually his face feels dry and he’s a little less likely to collapse. Steve doesn’t let go of him until his breathing evens out into something resembling normality.

Bucky sees the wetness in Steve’s eyes and grabs him back so they’re holding each other again.

“This is a mess,” Steve says. “It’s all just- it’s a mess.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

“Was that you?”

“Was _what_ me?”

“Don’t _fuck_ with me,” Bucky snarls, slams his fist against the glass. The demon twitches a little - not enough to be a full flinch, but there’s the barest flicker of fear in its blank eyes. Bucky doesn’t feel sorry for it in the slightest. Steve had started praying again this morning but Bucky’s not religious and whatever despair he’d been feeling earlier has twisted into anger. “Did you get in my head?”

“I’m trapped, buddy,” the demon says. “I can’t _get in_ anywhere. Although, if you’re offering…”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps at it. The red haze of anger is still clouding his thoughts and it’s like trying to run in water, heavy and tugging him down under the depths. It’d be so easy to lift the barrier and just grab it by the throat, squeeze until it stopped giving them all grief.

“So there’s something wrong with your head?”

“Shut up,” he says.

The demon raises one eyebrow curiously. “Why is it _my_ fault? Unless- were you dreaming about _this?_ ” Its hands move, caress the lines of Clint’s waist and thighs teasingly. The nails are too long and almost black in colour but the demon just keeps touching, something sultry and dangerous in the way it smirks.

There’s blood on its lips again, exactly like the dream. Bucky feels the nausea rise up his throat, tries to ignore the rolling waves in his stomach. He can’t find any words for how he feels right now, can’t even push out another vehement _fuck you_ at the demon as it slips Clint’s calloused fingers under the waistband of its loose sweatpants.

“A possessed body can’t be harmed properly by the demon inside it,” it tells him, and Bucky watches in abject horror as it shapes the generous bulge of Clint’s dick inside the sweatpants. “It just heals right back up again. A shame. But it also means I can tear this body apart piece by piece, again and again, and you just have to sit there and _watch_. You like watching, right?”

There’s an ominous click and they both freeze as the glass barrier starts moving. The demon pulls its hand away and grins bloody teeth at something behind Bucky as he takes a step back, and Bucky only gets a split second to register the blue and white blur as Steve tackles it to the ground with a crash.

Bucky can’t see the expression on Steve’s face from this angle, but he’s not sure he _wants_ to.

“Feisty,” the demon manages to get out before Steve punches it in the face. There’s a _crack_ but the demon seems undeterred, licks the blood off its teeth before it catches Steve’s next punch. Steve’s clearly not expecting that, and he’s definitely not expecting the kick that sends him flying into a wall.

The demon gets to its feet easily, takes a few steps towards Steve. The way it walks makes Bucky’s brain scream _predator_ , something dangerous in the way it tilts its head curiously. “What was that for? You want a piece of the action, Stevie-boy?”

“I want you out of my boyfriend’s body,” Steve says through gritted teeth. The kick doesn’t seem to have deterred him in the slightest as he charges at the demon again.

_Well, Tony was right_ , Bucky thinks vaguely as they start fighting. A demon with Clint Barton’s skills is something they definitely can’t let run around wild if it can hold its own against Steve. He realizes a second later that the demon isn’t just holding its own, it’s _winning_. Steve’s angry and distracted, and the demon’s got some kind of super-strength going on.

It knocks Steve onto the ground and the blood is mostly from the demon - somehow - and Bucky lurches into action just as Steve grabs for the cross around his throat and presses it against bare skin where the demon’s shirt is ripped. Immediately there’s a sizzling noise and the demon rears back.

Bucky slams the button that closes the containment unit and it slams shut just as the demon tries to lunge at Steve. It slams into the glass harmlessly and Steve drops the cross against his shirt, breathing heavily. There’s blood smeared across everything and Bucky’s own anger boils away into nothing at the sight of Steve lying on the floor.

“I had him on the ropes,” Steve tells him. "I'm fine."

Bucky nearly strangles him. He manages to put his hands on Steve’s shoulders instead as he kneels down, helps Steve into a sitting position. “You’re a goddamn idiot, is what you are. Fucking hell, Rogers.”

“It was hurting you,” comes the reply, which is so Steve that Bucky pulls him close, rests their foreheads together. Steve is a little sweaty but none of his injuries seem to be that bad, luckily.

“You don’t need to be my white knight all the time,” Bucky says. “I know you can’t help it. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you too, though. Don’t be a dumbass.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve mutters.

“How romantic. You two are like some shit out of a dramatic romance movie. Honestly, why did you even need this guy?”

Steve doesn’t answer the demon, and neither does Bucky.

_“Why am I here?”_

_“You got here by Quinjet,” Steve answers._

_Bucky’s sprawled out over both their laps, pretending to be asleep. He likes listening to them talk to each other without having to participate. It’s cathartic, and Clint’s hands are in his hair, gently twisting it into a series of intricate braids. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes out against the denim of Clint’s jeans as Steve’s thumb idly traces circles on his hip._

_“Not like that,” Clint says. “Not in a mid-life crisis way, either. I did that years ago.”_

_There’s a long pause and Bucky can tell without cracking open an eye that Steve’s making that face he does, the one that’s usually reserved for when Wanda’s having a bad day or Natasha’s come back from a hard mission. He’s waiting for Clint to elaborate without making him nervous, which is a startling amount of tact from a man whose idea of seduction is to just smack his mouth against another person’s hard enough to hurt._

_(He’d done that with Bucky_ and _Clint, come to think about it.)_

_“You guys have so much together,” Clint says finally. “I don’t understand why you’d need me.”_

_“We don’t need you,” Steve says, and Clint’s hands freeze in Bucky’s hair. “We_ want _you. It wouldn’t be as important if it wasn’t a choice we could all make, and we made the choice that we’re happier with you. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.”_

_“Huh,” Clint says._

_“Anyway,” Bucky cuts in. “Steve gets up too early in the morning and I like spooning.”_

_“Oh, it’s like that, is it,” Steve says, and Clint laughs and starts messing with Bucky’s hair again._

“New plan,” Tony says, slaps his hands down on the table. “Guess who’s back from Europe?”

“You don't need to announce it. They can clearly see me sitting here,” Wanda comments.

Steve sits forward in his chair with his arms resting on the table, gaze flicking between Wanda and Tony. Bucky’s trying to watch the bird outside the window - he’s paying attention to what’s going on well enough, but the bird seems to have stolen someone’s sock and it’s waving it around as if to show the newly-found treasure off.

Its wings look purple in the right light, and suddenly Bucky misses Clint so hard that it feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. It’s always there - it never goes away, really, but looking at the stupid bird brings it all back harder than ever.

“Anyway,” Tony says. “Wanda said that she could- what was it? You explain.”

“I can try and get inside Clint’s head,” Wanda tells them. “That way we can figure out what the situation is and if the demon is lying to you all. It seems strange that a demon could inhabit a corpse - from what I’ve learned with Stephen, it should be impossible.”

“Unless Clint was just barely alive when it-” Vision starts, and Wanda elbows him. It couldn’t possibly have hurt him but he goes silent anyway, gives Bucky and Steve an apologetic look. Bucky turns his attention back to the dancing pigeon over Wanda’s shoulder.

“So I’m going to go down there and try,” Wanda says decisively.

“It’s got Clint’s abilities and his memories,” Tony informs her. “It might not like you poking around in there.”

“It’s also locked inside a containment unit,” Steve says. “Can you get inside its head without touching it?”

Wanda mulls that over for a second. She looks briefly concerned and then Vision sets a hand on her shoulder, rubs his fingers over the red leather of her jacket. They share a look for a moment and then she nods to herself, turns back to them. “Sure. I’ve been practicing. Can we lower the glass on the unit so my powers can reach?"

“If we get out a few crosses, maybe.”

“Would salt work?”

“Do we want to take that risk if it _doesn’t_?”

“We’re going to have to,” Steve says. “Anyway, there’s… six of us here, and Sam will be around if there’s an emergency. We can lock down the basement level so no one can get out.”

“Alright,” Tony announces, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get to it, then.”

The demon doesn’t say anything as they all file in, and it actually takes a step back when it sees Wanda walk out of the elevator. Bucky watches its face carefully and the flicker of uncertainty disappears like it was never there, but the demon doesn’t come any closer. Normally it likes being as close to the glass as possible for maximum upset.

“I might be able to do it with the glass still there,” Wanda says thoughtfully. “Let me try.”

Steve doesn’t look as disapproving as he usually does when Natasha and Bucky pull out their handguns just in case. It’s all well and good to risk their own lives. Clint had loved Wanda like a baby sister and he’d been pretty protective though, so it’s different. Also, Wanda’s only doing this as a favour to them.

“Alright,” Wanda says, more to herself than to anyone else in the room.

They all hang back a meter or so as she approaches the containment unit curiously, looking up at the demon’s eyes.

“I’d like to state that I am not consenting to this,” the demon calls out to them. “I’ll have her arrested. I have rights.”

“Demons don’t have rights,” Tony answers dryly. “Anyway, did Barton consent to having a roommate? No one cares.”

The demon laughs at that. It’s not a very _nice_ noise, and even Vision looks a little unsettled by it. Bucky steps to the side so he has a better view of what’s going on and Natasha mirrors him on the other side. There’s not going to be a repeat of what happened with Steve - especially not with people who are more breakable than he is.

Wanda lifts her hands up and Bucky watches as the red glow appears, far too close to the memories of the demonic portal. “It’ll be easier if you stay still.”

“You promised never to go rooting around in this skull, honey,” the demon says. “It’s not very nice to lie.”

“Extenuating circumstances,” Wanda reasons, pressing her palm against the glass and spreading her fingers out. The demon doesn’t step away but there’s an uncharacteristic frown edging onto Clint’s face, far from the terrifying grins that have been resting there.

Wanda stands there for a second frowning into space and then she lowers her hand, shaking her head. “I need the barrier to be removed.”

“That’s not-” Tony starts, but Natasha steps closer with her gun pointed directly at the demon’s forehead.

“Barnes,” she orders, and Bucky edges closer as well. “Alright. Open it.”

“I could kill you before they squeezed the trigger,” the demon says. “You’re willing to test it? A little adrenaline junkie, are you? Seems to be how _everyone_ in this joint is. You people ever heard of safety or is that some kind of a joke to humans?”

“Shh,” Wanda says, and strangely enough the demon does go quiet. She lifts one hand and gestures for them to lower the glass.

Bucky doesn’t look back to see what they’re doing - he’s not moving his gun an inch away from the demon - but there’s a beep and the barrier starts moving. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the demon and he’s assuming Natasha’s doing the same, but the demon isn’t trying anything.

In fact, it’s oddly docile as the glass slides away and it’s left standing in front of Wanda. She looks remarkably small in front of it, even with the lean muscle she’s built on her travels. It doesn’t help that Clint was ridiculously tall to begin with.

The demon snarls at her when she reaches for it and then freezes as her fingers brush Clint’s cheeks. Bucky notices a gleam of red from the corner of his eye but keeps his attention fixed on the demon’s face, as the threads of light caress the patchy stubble and hard jawline. It’s gentle, almost comforting, and the demon’s face goes slack.

Bucky keeps his finger on the trigger.

Nothing happens. 

“So what, do we just sit around now?”

“She’s looking inside his mind,” Vision says. “There isn’t a lot that we can do from the outside, unfortunately. We mustn’t disturb them unless something goes wrong.”

“Ugh. Anyone want a drink? I knew that coffee machine was a good idea.”

Tony groans dramatically and Steve sighs at him. Bucky doesn’t look away from Wanda and the demon. He’s holding onto the gun so hard that his fingers would probably ache if they were flesh and bone. There’s still blood smeared on the demon’s skin but it seems to be mostly centered around his ears and throat right now.

He notices something black in the demon’s ear and feels a frown cross his face. Are those- no, it can’t be. Why would a demon need Clint’s hearing aids? It can heal its own wounds, there’s no reason for it to be wearing those. That doesn’t make sense unless it’s wearing them to upset people, but why keep them all this time even if that _is_ the case?

“What do you want, Barnes? Romanov?”

“Cappuccino,” Natasha answers flatly.

What _Bucky_ wants is for Wanda to tell them that the demon’s lying. It’s possible. Why would a demon tell the truth? There’s no reason for it to lie, sure, but there’s no real reason for it to be honest either. It’s a smart creature.

It could’ve be misleading them the whole time.

“I don’t like this,” Steve says a few minutes later. “Should it be taking this long? Does it normally take a while?”

“Sometimes,” Vision replies, rather unhelpfully.

Wanda’s eyes snap open like she’s heard their conversation and there’s an audible hiss and a bang. Bucky nearly squeezes the trigger but as Wanda jerks away from the demon, it drops to the ground in an ungraceful heap. It doesn’t move for a few long seconds and Bucky glances back at Wanda, at the strange look on her face.

“Is it dead?”

The demon snarls and grabs at Wanda with black-veined hands. It misses without anyone doing anything and Bucky fires off a shot close to its fingers to make it twitch backwards. Wanda’s breathing hard and the barrier slams up a second later, trapping the demon inside.

“Not dead, then,” Tony observes.

“ _You’re_ going to be dead,” the demon growls. It’s been knocked off-balance by Wanda’s powers, that’s for sure. There’s something angry and wild in its eyes, a flash of raw fear that has Bucky lowering the gun to stare at a white-faced Wanda, the red light fading from her own irises.

Vision steadies her and she brushes him off gently after a moment. Her hands are trembling and Bucky’s breath catches in his throat. He spares a glance at Steve, sees his own glimmer of hope reflected in Steve’s eyes. There’s a chance here, just a little one, but that’s all they usually get anyway.

Wanda swallows hard and looks back at the demon.

It stares back.

The silence drags out.

“Maximoff,” Tony says.

“There’s only one person in that body,” Wanda blurts out, curls her hands around her waist like she’s trying to protect herself from whatever it is she’s seen in there. She looks like she’s about to collapse on the floor and Bucky’s so worried that he doesn’t take in what she’s said until a moment later.

_Oh_.

The room is deathly silent. Vision starts gently leading her towards the elevator and Tony follows closely behind. There’s no smart-ass comment from him at all, no nothing as he tucks himself into the corner of the box away from Wanda.

“I’m compromised,” Natasha says flatly as she pockets her gun, walks into the elevator with them. Her face remains impassive and Bucky doesn’t expect it to change anytime soon.

Bucky looks at Steve.

Steve looks at Bucky, and Bucky wishes he didn’t know the man inside and out, wishes he couldn’t see the despair seeping in.

“We could-” Bucky starts, stops.

There’s got to be _something_.

Steve doesn’t say a word. He just turns around and walks toward the emergency stairs. His footsteps echo loud enough to make Bucky’s head throb, and he’s still got his hands clenched tight on his handgun.

“Well,” the demon rasps.

Bucky whips around without thinking, pulls up the gun and shoots at the demon. He can’t hear the gunshots and he doesn’t stop until he’s run out of bullets, and then he pulls the trigger again a few times just for good measure. The glass doesn’t even crack and Bucky throws it at the wall with whatever strength he can muster, stands there and tries to catch his breath.

The demon fogs up the glass and draws a winky face on it.

Bucky barely manages to get out of the room before he throws up, and even then he can hear the sharp, nasty laughter echoing in his ears. His throat is burning and his eyes are burning and it _hurts,_ so much that he can’t breathe. He’s still replaying the way Clint had smiled at him that last time, with so much love in his eyes that it’d been blinding to look at and that dorky little wave.

All this, and where did it get them?

Oh god, what have they done?


	4. Chapter 4

_“Do you ever feel like everything’s gone wrong?”_

_Bucky looks up from his book at Clint, raises an eyebrow at him. “What d’you mean?”_

_“I meant what I said,” Clint replies blandly._

_They’re sitting across from each other while they wait for Steve to come home from whatever thing Fury’s got him doing today. Clint’s kicked his feet up so they’re resting on the tiny bit of chair between Bucky’s spread thighs and every now and then he’ll wiggle his toes against Bucky’s jeans, like the texture interests him. There’s something contemplative on his face, though, something that drains away the aura of loveable idiot that everyone mistakes for his entire personality._

_Bucky thinks about the question he’s been asked. “Maybe. Would’ve been a long time ago, though.”_

_“Yeah,” Clint says. “See, I used to feel like everything was wrong all the time. It wasn’t like- it wasn’t a big thing, but sometimes I’d just get stuck. My brain’s kind of fucked, y’know?”_

_“I know,” Bucky answers, reaches over the table to link their fingers together._

_“Since I’ve been with you and Steve, I don’t feel like that as often,” Clint adds, a tiny glimmer of a smile on his lips. “It’s- it’s been good. I think you guys might be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. Thank you.”_

_“Thank_ you _,” Bucky replies, and he’s only joking a little bit._

No one speaks to Bucky when he walks into the kitchen.

He’s just looking for Steve so it’s not that important that they pay attention to him, but they’re very pointedly _not_ paying attention to him. Tony looks at down at his mug when Bucky glances over at him. He knows why they’re afraid of speaking to him. Wanda’s already left because she doesn’t want to be here for it.

“Where’s Steve?”

“He’s not with you?”

Bucky gives Tony a _look_.

“He was heading for the gym,” Natasha cuts in before Bucky can start with the sarcasm. She doesn’t make eye contact either, but she isn’t any more impolite than usual. She’s doing a crossword from the newspaper and judging from the holes in the paper, it’s not going well.

“Thanks,” Bucky manages to throw over his shoulder before he makes a beeline for the elevator. It’s a silent ride. Bucky’s brain feels like it’s physically buzzing with stress. He’s exhausted and he’s angry and Steve hasn’t spoken to him since they’d confirmed that Clint’s gone for good.

God, Clint’s-

They lost people in the war, but not like this. Not people that they’d been _that_ close to. Bucky obviously can’t speak to anyone about what Steve was like when he fell from the train himself - they're all dead and Peggy didn't remember a thing about it - but he’d heard stories about the plane and none of what he’s heard was good. Losing Clint the _first_ time had been bad enough.

If he’s honest, he _is_ extremely worried about Steve, but he’s also desperate for some scrap of comfort for himself as well.

The gym is empty apart when Bucky steps out, until he catches sight of a lone figure by the window, fists bunched. Steve doesn’t look at him either. _Not again_ , Bucky thinks, quiet and a little desperate. They need to stay together for this, even if it is a disaster that neither of them are prepared for. 

Someone’s got to do something about the demon in the basement, after all.

“Steve.”

The crack of fists against the punching bag is almost deafening. Bucky twitches a little at each hit, can’t look straight at the sight in front of his eyes. He chooses instead to look at a spot on the wall where there’s an arrow-shaped hole sitting there. Sucks in a breath, lets it go quietly. It doesn’t stop.

“ _Steve_.”

He doesn’t pause in his punches.

It’s too _loud,_ too much for his already frazzled brain. His skull feels like it’s on fire and Steve won’t stop punching the goddamn punching bag and it’s _too much_. Bucky claps his hands over his ears. “Fuck’s sake, Steve, _stop it!_ ”

The punching bag snaps off of the tether and thumps to the ground. It’s suddenly, blissfully silent, and Bucky closes his eyes in some desperate hope that it’ll make the world feel less overwhelming, less soaked in everyone’s despair. Steve’s panting in harsh breaths, and Bucky can't find enough breath to pant himself. Bucky thinks his hearing’s fucking around again when it stops, but then he opens his eyes to Steve gently peeling his mismatched hands away from his ears.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says hoarsely. “I keep doing this to you.”

Bucky’s not expecting that. His thumbs rub against Bucky’s palms as he holds on, careful patterns against Bucky’s skin and the metal of his left hand. Bucky looks down at where their hands are pressed together and then looks up at Steve’s face, the swirl of emotion there. His eyes are red-rimmed and his hair's more of a mess than usual. He looks like shit.

Bucky thinks that he probably looks like shit too.

“I dropped the ball after the- after the portal, too,” Steve says. “I’ve been… erratic. Maybe I should’ve gone to the therapy after all. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I don’t think either of us can take this well,” Bucky offers quietly. “It’s real fucked up, Steve.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “Guess we’ve got to try, though. Together?”

Bucky doesn’t answer him verbally, but he does twist his hands around so their fingers are loosely linked together instead. Steve leans in to press their foreheads together and Bucky takes a deep breath, lets it go again when his lungs start to ache.

“Fix Stark’s punching bag,” he says finally. “I’m going for a walk.”

He means to go to Bed-Stuy and check on the tenants there - Bucky hasn’t actually been back since the mission to Las Vegas. It’s irresponsible when he knows the men in tracksuits are hanging around, but he’s fairly sure that most of the residents have weapons now. He’d run a workshop on how to safely carry and use a handgun, too.

It had just been a precaution and he’s really hoping they _haven’t_ had to put it into use, because Aimee’s gun handling is the worst thing he’s seen in a while.

Still, when he gets into the cab he doesn’t direct the driver towards Brooklyn. He does text Simone, gets a reply a few seconds later that everyone is fine - the washing machines in the basement have started leaking again, but Bucky just tells her to call up a professional. He doesn’t know how to work washing machines anyway.

The high-rise buildings fade into long grass and sparse trees and Bucky lets out a sigh.

“We’re here.”

“Thanks for this,” he tells the taxi driver as he thumbs through his wallet for cash. He jumps when the driver’s hand lands on his left wrist, calloused skin against shiny metal. The driver has a Hawkeye bandaid on his index finger and Bucky freezes when he sees it, looks up into an impassive face.

“No charge needed,” the driver says. “He helped me once, too.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says again, feels useless for not coming up with anything better. He’s not the one with the words. The one with the words is gone all over again, and Bucky hadn’t wanted to hope but he _had_ been, in the back of his stupid, hopeless brain. He _hates_ it. Bucky’s a hundred years old, he can’t afford to be an idiot about this anymore.

He’s a little tired of outliving everyone.

Bucky tucks a few fifty-dollar notes into the driver’s seat anyway before he gets out of the car.

The graveyard is louder than usual. Bucky glances around and notices a group clustered around an open grave on the other side of the grass. It’s not near the headstone he’s making his way towards, so he quietly passes an elderly woman without saying anything, heads for the back of the graveyard.

“They had so much to live for,” someone says.

Bucky gets how that feels. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his hoodie - _Clint’s_ hoodie, technically, except it’s _not_ because Clint isn’t here to take ownership of it anymore - and keeps walking until he’s in front of an unassuming grave that’s been painted purple on the edges. There’s an arrow stuck in the ground where weeds have started to grow, and Bucky sits down on the grass, leans up against the cold stone.

After a few minutes of rummaging Bucky comes up with a crumpled pack of cigarettes, roots around for a lighter as well. He’s far enough away from everything else that he won’t bother anyone with smoking. He watches the funeral for a while, deduces that it’s for a young child.

The coffin is so small. A young woman breaks down in sobs that he can’t hear and Bucky breathes out a mouthful of smoke, watches it drift into the air idly.

“Fucking hell, Barton,” he says, can’t even make out his own words. “This is exactly the kind of bullshit that would happen to you, huh? Even in the goddamn afterlife.”

Bucky wonders if Clint’s soul is still down there. He’s not even sure that the hell these demons come from actually _is_ the hell Steve’s mother used to tell them about. He is hoping that Clint’s somewhere nice, though. Clint deserves more than hell.

“You’re really going to make me watch you die all over again,” Bucky says. “The first time wasn’t enough for you?”

They’re not really killing _Clint_ , but that’s what’s going to happen. Judging from the reaction he’s been getting from the other Avengers, it’s going to come down to him. He’s going to have to be the one to get rid of the demon. Which means he’s going to have to get rid of the last scrap of Clint that’s left hanging around.

Fucking hell.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps coming up to him, so he only notices Steve when he sits down close enough for their thighs to be touching. Steve’s warm enough to be a furnace, and if he says anything it must not be that important because he doesn’t poke Bucky the way he normally does when he doesn’t get a reply. Instead he steals Bucky’s cigarette, takes a drag and looks over at the funeral.

Bucky’s not sure how long they sit there. It’s long enough for most of the people to have left, with only the crying woman and a young boy that clings to her legs remaining.

“Shouldn’t happen to someone that young,” Bucky says eventually when he realizes he can hear again.

“No,” Steve agrees. “It shouldn’t. Shouldn’t happen to older people, either.”

Bucky lights another cigarette. “What’re we gonna do, Steve?”

“Whatever we have to,” Steve answers.

That’s… reasonable enough, Bucky supposes. He’s still not happy about it. How could _anyone_ be happy about any of this? Maybe it’ll provide some kind of closure in the end, though. Bucky feels like he’s going to be sick again. Some part of him misses being Hydra’s asset, because he hadn’t felt much of anything back then.

Instead, he’s left with a pit in his stomach and the unavoidable knowledge that someone’s going to have to put the demon down, and it’s probably going to be him. He’d shot at it before, he could do it again.

He just wishes he didn’t have to.

“We can’t just let it go,” Steve says, clearly thinking along the same route as Bucky. “And we can’t just leave it in the containment unit forever.”

“Yeah,” Bucky answers.

“Clint wouldn’t want this,” Steve says distantly.

_Clint_ would’ve wanted them to kill the demon on sight without giving it a chance to hurt anyone, even if he _had_ been in there with it. He wouldn’t have thought he was worth all this pain. Clint would’ve _insisted_ on the demon being taken out right away, before anything could happen that he'd feel guilty about.

Wait.

“Shit,” Bucky says, scrambles to his feet. “ _Shit_ , Steve. We can’t kill the demon.”

“What? Buck, we need to-”

“I’ll explain when we get down there,” he says above the blood rushing in his ears. “Just- hear me out, and if I’m wrong I’ll shoot it myself.”

Steve looks hesitant, but he's trusted Bucky up until now and he's apparently willing to do it again. "Alright. What do you need?"

_“Bucky, Steve,” Clint says. “I love you.”_

_He’s standing in front of the portal, the red glow washing out the colour in his face. The blood’s leaking over his fingers, hitting the dirt and the demon’s corpse in droplets that shouldn’t be audible and yet every drop is like the fall of a hammer. There’s black tendrils grasping at his hips, his throat and the curves of his arms where he’s holding the wound._

_“I’m sorry,” Clint says, like it’s final, like there isn’t anything else left to say, because all that Clint’s worried about is them and not himself, never himself._

“Hey there,” the demon drawls when he walks in. Its knee is pointing in the wrong direction and Bucky refrains from flinching when it twists it back into place with an audible crack. “Come to test the bulletproof glass out again? I’ll even cheer you on- you guys have gotta have some pompoms hidden around here somewhere.”

_Shut it_ , Bucky signs at it flatly, and then turns around and waits for the others to show up. Funnily enough, the demon does fall silent for a few minutes. Bucky very determinedly doesn’t look in that direction, clenches his hands in the pockets of the stupid pink hoodie and stays focused. Steve’s gone to find Tony and Natasha, but he’s elected to get down here as quickly as possible.

The demon’s silence is short-lived. “Trouble in paradise?”

Bucky ignores the question.

“That bad, huh?”

Bucky turns around just enough to catch sight of it, so it can catch sight of his own scowl. The demon’s lounging up against the glass barrier, arms braced above its head. They’ve given it fresh clothes and Bucky wonders if someone has a grudge against them, to hand it something black and sleeveless so every inch of those truly absurd arm muscles are on display.

“You’ve talked enough,” Bucky says finally. “It’s my turn.”

The demon raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue with him. It still looks a little pale in the face from the adventure with Wanda, a little less volatile. There’s nothing particularly monstrous about it today either, apart from the black eyes and the streaks of dried blood, which confirms Bucky’s suspicions that whatever happened with Wanda’s probing has exhausted its powers.

Demons shouldn’t feel tired.

“...don’t get what this is all about,” Tony’s saying as the elevator doors open. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to come down here ever again.

“We won’t,” Bucky says. Hopes.

Hoping’s been a dangerous thing, lately.

“What’re we doing back here, Barnes?”

“We’re letting the demon out,” Bucky says. “And I’m getting my- _our_ boyfriend back.”

Natasha speaks up this time, her voice indicating that she expects him to be the _reasonable_ one. “James, I don’t think this is healthy. Wanda already told us that Clint was gone-”

“No, she didn’t. She only said that there was one person in that body,” Bucky says, looks at Steve. “See, I think she was purposely avoiding telling us things because of what she saw in there. Some things just don’t add up, no matter how I look at them.”

“What are you suggesting here, exactly?”

“Please tell me we’re not going on some harebrained scheme to yank Barton’s soul out of the underworld,” Tony says. “Closing that portal the first time nearly killed us all. It's a miracle we only lost one Avenger. Going in to get Barton isn't a good idea.”

Bucky points behind himself with his free hand, directly at where the containment unit lies. “We don’t have to go anywhere. He’s right there.”

Silence.

“Like… his soul’s floating around?”

“No,” Bucky says.

“But that’s a demon,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “We got stuck on the idea of there being a demon or Clint, not that there might’ve been a way that Clint _is_ the demon.”

He glances back at the glass barrier, at the figure standing behind it. The solid black has filtered away from his eyes and there’s just the soft, painfully familiar cornflower blue left. The demon is just watching them now, expression too carefully blank to be genuine.

Now he’s looking Bucky can see the dark shadows on its face, the way it’s edged away from them quietly, now they’re not paying attention. He should’ve picked up on it earlier, but he was so busy being scared of the demonic twist that he hadn’t looked close enough to see the familiar parts underneath it.

Which would’ve been the plan, after all, because Clint Barton is an excellent actor but he’s a goddamn self-sacrificing idiot. The dreams make sense now. Bucky’s body had known, somehow, but his mind hadn’t caught up until now.

He owes Steve a _massive_ apology, too. First he’s got to convince them, though.

“You notice how he hasn’t killed anyone? Or even hurt them?”

“But he-” Steve starts.

“He hurt you when you got too close, yeah. It would’ve looked weird if he hadn’t defended himself at all,” Bucky says. “Notice how he didn’t harm anyone except for the one person that’d heal from it in a few hours without any marks, though? He didn’t hurt me or Wanda, even though he could’ve. Did it even hurt that much?”

“Didn’t he try to stab you in Vegas?”

“I’m guessing he knew Carter’s agents were surrounding the building,” Bucky answers. “No way out. Making us think he was going to stab me was the easiest way to avoid the questions he didn’t want to answer. Sharon doesn’t take risks.”

It’s calculated. It’s also _exactly_ the kind of thing Clint did- does. His favourite trick is to mask his competence under layers of distractions so no one will notice.

“Demons don’t need hearing aids either,” Bucky adds.

Steve’s eyes have gone wide, flick over Bucky’s shoulder with the tiniest glimmer of hope. Bucky feels a brief pang of panic, hopes like hell he isn’t making a huge mistake. He knows he’s right and yet it’s still terrifying, reaching for the button that opens the glass and slamming his hand down on it. Shouts break out but it’s too late, the barrier is already sliding away.

No one moves.

No one moves _including_ the demon, who’s just standing there with that blank expression that’s crumbling just a little at the edges. There’s no attempt at escape, no attack towards any of the people that would be easily within reach. It just stays where it is, looking at the wall like it’s going to open up into another portal.

Steve takes a step forward. “...Clint?”

Bucky can’t quite get his legs to move yet, so he’s stuck watching as Steve gets closer, still a little wary-looking, but it’s tinged with a terrified kind of wonder that’s rapidly taking over his face.

He steps into the containment unit and the demon jerks back, backs off like Steve’s dangerous. There’s a flicker of fear there and nothing else, nothing so easily readable. The demon gets backed up into a corner and then there’s no chance of escape without a fight, and the demon doesn’t do _anything_.

“Tell me Bucky’s right,” Steve says, barely audible. “Please, please tell me he’s right.”

He reaches out and the demon flinches.

“Don’t touch me,” Clint whispers, or at least Bucky _thinks_ that’s what he says. He’s pressed up against the wall so hard that it’s like he’s trying to phase through it - like he’s scared of Steve’s hands on him when it’s not for a fight. Steve pulls his hand back at the request but he doesn’t back off completely, and Clint still isn’t looking at them.

“Why was he being such a dick, then? What was the point, if he's just _himself_ plus demon powers?” Bucky hears Tony ask, pretends he hasn’t heard the question.

“He was trying to goad us into killing him,” Natasha says flatly. 

“Steve would’ve done what he’d done with the Winter Soldier if he’d had a clue,” Tony replies, the realization creeping in. “This was the only way he could guarantee they’d stop chasing him. We should go, right? I feel like we’re stepping in on a moment here.”

Bucky ignores them and if Natasha replies to that, he doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy getting his legs to work so he can get close to them, count every freckle that’s been burned into his memory in real life again, instead of his memories. Clint's still covered in dried blood but he just looks tired and distressed. He _hates_ being locked up. Whatever happened must have fucked with him hard enough that he'd been convinced this was the only way, and Bucky's heart twists in his chest.

“Why’d you have to figure it out,” Clint mutters as he draws closer.

“I owed you one,” Bucky answers simply. He's got to physically stop himself from grabbing Clint right here and never letting go ever again. “Remember? You think we can go somewhere else and talk about this, instead of Stark’s basement?

“He lives in the penthouse,” Steve says. “It’s _all_ his basement.”

“Please?” Bucky tries, and Clint seems to deflate all at once.

"If that's what you want," he says quietly. "I want coffee."

Whatever reluctance he’s feeling towards them, the same can’t be said for the bed. Clint wraps himself in about five different blankets - blankets they used to keep for him - and Bucky and Steve sit at the end of the bed. There's a pot of coffee on the bench but Clint had mostly ignored it, which is concerning. It doesn’t feel like close enough. Bucky can see Steve’s fingers twitching with the urge to touch.

Clint doesn’t say anything. His face is barely visible through the cocoon of cotton and fleece, but Bucky can see the uncertainty in his eyes and the way he pulls his feet up close. They don’t speak for a few long minutes.

The bird’s back at the window. It’s got another sock - this one’s the same purple as its feathers. Bucky wonders if it’s acting as some kind of omen, some kind of foreshadowing he should've picked up on earlier. 

That's stupid. It's just a pigeon.

Steve speaks first. “What happened?”

“I woke up in hell and I was a monster,” Clint answers. _All you can hear is the screaming,_ he’d said earlier, and Bucky wonders if it was his own screaming or someone else’s. “They thought they could recruit me, thought a former human would be useful.”

“I’m guessin’ you weren’t a fan of that idea,” Bucky says, gets the barest sliver of a smile for his comment.

“I was-” he stops for a second, bites his lip. “Confused, maybe. My memory was patchy. I went along with it at first - long enough that I remembered who I was - and then I kept going because I thought they’d slip up and lead me back here. Then they _did,_ and I realized I couldn’t come back like this.”

“Clint, you-” Steve starts.

“You don’t know what I did down there,” Clint cuts in. “It was _bad_ , Steve. It was real bad.”

His jaw tightens and Bucky’s cracking at the edges. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve looks like he’s in the same situation. Clint just looks like he’s reliving the horrors all over again in the privacy of his own head. Oddly enough, it’s reminding Bucky of the expression he’d worn in the mirror himself, after the Soldier.

“You’re home now,” Steve offers quietly.

“Doesn’t change what happened,” Clint says. There's something haunted in his eyes, as blue as they are.

“Right,” Bucky says. “Barton, I going to hug you within a goddamn inch of your life now. If the reason you don’t want me to touch you is because you feel like you don’t deserve it, then I _don’t_ care.”

Clint twitches a little, looks nervous but doesn’t actually tell Bucky he doesn’t _want_ to be touched. He actually twitches forward in an aborted motion that makes Bucky think it's the opposite. How long has it been for him? Had he meant to climb into Bucky's lap that first time or had he just been desperate for some kind of contact without letting himself give in? 

Clint's always been enemies with his own mind. Whatever he's seen down there though, it's _damaged_ him, fucked him up hard enough that he's convinced he can't recover, and the horror seeps right down to Bucky's bones when he realizes it reminds him most of _himself_ , after the Soldier. There's a lot to unpack here, stuff that they definitely can't fix on their own, but right now all Bucky wants to do is convince Clint all over again that he's loved regardless of what's happened.

Bucky takes the risk and moves, gets his arms around Clint over the layers of blanket and squeezes tight enough to hurt. Clint sags into it after a tense minute, turns his face so his nose is brushing Bucky’s throat. Steve curls around them a second later.

The world feels _right_ again, all of a sudden, and Bucky shares a desperate look with Steve that’s too full of emotion to be coherent.

“I’m not _right,_ ” Clint mutters, completely at odds with the way he’s curling into them.

“I know a pretty good therapist,” Bucky says. “Someone recommended her when I was having a hard time dealing with things I’d done.”

Clint lets out a choked-sounding laugh but he doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t push them away and he doesn’t _leave_ , so Bucky’s taking that as a win.

As long as they’re together, it’s a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered doing an epilogue, but I felt it might be too much. Maybe a oneshot set in the future someday? Thanks for reading, and thank you to BDBD for sprinting and overall support. Finally got something completed for this year!

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Ameriwinterhawk (Clint/Steve/Bucky)  
> Title Song: [ Clockwork - Palaye Royale ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcaLVZ0TDXk)


End file.
